


Croatia

by Aggie2011



Series: Vantage Point Universe [7]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, No Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 55,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aggie2011/pseuds/Aggie2011
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were separated. On the run. And communicating with faulty equipment. For Phil and Clint it was just another day at the office - until the mission takes a tragic turn that will teach both agents a hard lesson about loyalty, sacrifice, and what friends do for friends - what brothers do for brothers. *Pre-Avengers*NO-SLASH*Pre-Natasha*Vantage Point Universe*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Not Trying To Be The Hero

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> If you are new to my stuff, this is the next installment in an increasingly long line of multi-chap fics and one-shots in a universe that I created for the Avengers. It revolves around Clint Barton and various events in his life. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_Your truest friends are the ones who will stand by you in your darkest moments – because they're willing to brave the shadows with you – and in your greatest moments – because they're not afraid to let you shine._

**_Nicole Yatsonsky_ **

* * *

Clint didn't look over his shoulder when the door to the roof opened. He didn't look over his shoulder when he heard footsteps approaching. He didn't look over when Phil dropped down to sit next to him, either.

"You been up here all night?"

"Since about one," Clint replied with a half shrug.

Phil nodded and was silent for a moment, waiting to see if Clint would volunteer anything else.

He wasn't really surprised when he didn't.

"What was it tonight?"

Clint hadn't come and gotten him up, so it hadn't been one of his guilt-ridden contract dreams. That, of course, still left several options that were just as bad, each in their own way. It could be the night his parents died  _–_ uncommon _,_ but understandably upsetting. However, Clint had learned to deal with his parents' death years before Phil ever met him and while he was markedly depressed after that particular nightmare, he didn't wallow in it.

That left two options: a SHIELD mission gone wrong – or his brother Barney.

When Clint didn't immediately respond, Phil took a moment to analyze his expression and his posture. He knew which dream it was immediately.

He'd dreamed of Barney last night.

He didn't do that often. Mercifully, his subconscious rarely dredged up the memories of that fateful night a little over four years ago  _–_ the night his brother had stabbed him in the chest and left him for dead. But when it did, it left Clint in a rare state. Coulson had only witnessed the immediate aftermath of a Barney dream twice in the almost three years since Clint had joined SHIELD.

Clint was always a bit of a mess immediately after waking from a nightmare. Coulson had helped him learn to cope with the dreams about his contract days. Clint handled dreams of his parent's car accident just fine on his own. When he dreamed of one of the SHIELD missions that had gone wrong, he usually just needed a few moments to reconnect with reality.

His dreams of Barney were the worst. The betrayal still cut deeply, even after all this time.

After a Barney dream, the normal wild and terrified look that Coulson now associated with one of Clint's nightmares took on a whole new quality of devastation, mixed with a dose of vulnerability. Clint usually made quick tracks away from him after those dreams and returned sometimes hours later with a blank and unaffected expression.

That was how Coulson always knew when he dreamed of Barney, because he could read Clint's expressions better than anyone else alive. He'd know Clint for four months shy of three years, and he'd become somewhat of an expert on knowing exactly what the younger man wasn't saying.

Coulson's favorite expression was the one he usually wore when they were alone. It was relaxed, trusting, and lacking the usual guardedness Clint wore with everyone else. He smiled a lot and laughed more when he wore that expression.

He also had his nightmare expression. It was usually only there for a few seconds immediately after Clint woke. The only time Coulson ever saw it was when they were on a mission together. He hated that expression because it tore at him that he couldn't prevent it. He could protect Clint from a lot, but he couldn't protect him from his dreams.

The rest of his expressions were harder to decipher, because they were all varying forms of the emotionless mask Clint wore 99% of the time. The true indicator of what was really going on behind that mask were his eyes. Those intense blue-grey eyes that could tell you everything and nothing with just a glance.

When in true game-face mode, Clint's eyes were cold, hard, terrifyingly intense, and gave  _nothing away._

When he was pissed, his eyes flashed with the heat of his anger.

When he was amused, his eyes laughed even when his mouth didn't.

When he was upset or sad, his eyes bled with all the heartbreak the kid had known in his short life.

But what Coulson had seen today was different. Today was his lying face.

When he lied, he was just blank.

The only other time he wore the blank face was after he dreamed of Barney. He was internalizing and pushing it all down so he didn't have to deal with it. Phil had tried, a handful of times, to get Clint to tell him about what had happened between he and Barney. He  _knew_  the story, knew that Barney had stabbed him and left him to die. But he didn't know the story behind that story. He didn't know any more than what he had seen in Clint's eyes the  _one_  time he'd told Phil what had happened and what he'd seen the  _two_  times he'd been there when Clint dreamed of Barney since.

There was so much overwhelming pain and devastation in his young charge's eyes in those moments that Phil didn't have the heart to ask any questions. Just like he didn't have the heart to ask now. He didn't want to be the cause of that look in Clint's eyes. He didn't want to dredge up old, still-bleeding wounds and poke at them. Not until Clint was ready to bring it up himself.

So instead he just simply asked,

"You okay?"

Clint nodded. He would be fine. He always was after dreaming of Barney. It just took a little longer than normal to get his head on straight. Like tonight. He'd been up here for almost three hours and had been planning on being up here for at least two more.

Ever since he'd been pulled from general training, Coulson had pushed their morning training time back to 6 a.m. instead of 4 a.m. Clint had embraced the change.

Today, he'd needed that extra couple of hours. He needed it to deal with dreaming of Barney in the only way he knew how. Internalize and ignore, because it hurt too damn much to deal with and acknowledge.

When he looked back now, he realized Barney had stopped being a brother to him long before he put the knife in his chest. But at the time, it had blindsided him. He'd been so naive and oblivious to who his brother really was, he hadn't believed Barney would really hurt him. He had clung to that belief up until the moment he saw his brother's eyes, a second before the blade sliced into him.

The betrayal had hurt as badly as the knife and had continued hurting long after the wound had healed and turned to a scar. It still hurt, even now, hurt so badly that Clint couldn't even talk to Phil about it. Couldn't bring himself to dwell on it long enough to take the comfort he knew Phil would probably offer. He ignored it instead, pushed it down deeply so that he could pretend it wasn't there.

That was what he did now. He internalized the pain and the heartbreak. He buried it deep and forced himself to ignore it, as he had for the past three hours as he stared blankly out into the night and thought about anything  _but_ his brother.

Coulson just sat next to him silently, probably already knowing exactly what was going through Clint's head and choosing to let him be instead of forcing the issue. Clint knew it was only because it was Barney. Coulson didn't have a problem forcing any other issues if he thought it was in Clint's best interest for his mental, physical or emotional health.

But this was Barney. Clint couldn't deal with it so Coulson didn't make him.

Instead, Coulson asked what song he was listening to and Clint offered him one of his earbuds. And they sat in silence, just listening to Clint's iPod for the next two hours until they headed downstairs to get ready for their morning run.

Somehow that was enough for Clint. It made it a little better for now.

And Coulson, Coulson knew that one day Clint would be ready to face what happened between him and Barney. Phil would be there when he was.

* * *

"How can you even think that?" Clint scoffed as they started their post-run stretching routine. "It would be Fury every time."

"You honestly think if Director Fury had to face down a real Balrog that he'd win." Phil arched an eyebrow doubtfully at the claim.

"Have you  _seen_  the glare that man can deliver when he really puts his mind to it? _"_

"Not with nearly the frequency you have," Phil allowed with a smirk that earned him a half-hearted glare in return.

"Well, speaking as an expert on being on the receiving end of one of his glares, the Balrog wouldn't stand a chance. Fury is the reason they have a phrase about looks being able to kill."

"Are you saying you're a more formidable opponent than a Balrog? Since you've survived the glare many times." Phil laughed as they moved away from the track.

"You kidding? I'd waste a Balrog's ass before it even had a chance to light up its fire."

"I think it's always on fire."

"What the hell are you two talking about?"

They both looked up at the sound of Agent Todd Bryan's voice. Before Coulson could explain, Clint piped up.

"Fury versus mythical creatures. So far we have him taking down an Orc, Uruk-hai, Balrog, and a Nazgûl but losing to an elf."

"Why an elf?"

Clint scoffed.

"Bow and arrow, duh."

"We agreed to disagree on that one," Coulson added with a slight smirk.

Todd still looked a little confused  _–_ and more than a little disturbed. Phil figured it might be time to explain.

"I got him the Lord of the Rings books for Christmas, and he's read them twice since then."

"You  _do_  realize they made movies about those books. __Good__  movies."

Clint shrugged. He didn't have time to go see movies. Books, books he could fit into lulls in his life. Like when he was on a ten-hour flight to a different country and needed a break from mission prep. He liked books.

Coulson looked at his watch.

"I need to get going."

"What's this meeting about anyway?" Clint asked as the three of them walked back towards the entrance to the building.

"A possible mission for you. Fury and I have to decide if it merits taking you out of the rotation."

Clint nodded in understanding. If an assignment was slated to take more than a few days, Phil and Fury always discussed it before it was assigned to Clint. He was SHIELD's top commodity and they didn't like putting him on assignments with long timelines unless absolutely necessary.

"So I'll leave you in Agent Bryan's capable hands and I'll come find you when the meeting is over."

Clint nodded and Coulson pushed his way back into the building.

"So what'll it be? Sparring? Obstacle course? Just what do you want me to kick your ass in today?"

Clint smirked at Agent Bryan. On the rare times that Coulson couldn't be there to handle a part of Clint's training, Agent Bryan was the regular stand-in. He was the only other agent on base that keep up with Clint to any degree, and he was also the only other agent Clint was comfortable enough with to take training tips from. Having been Clint's general trainer for the first year and a half of his career at SHIELD, Agent Bryan knew his abilities and training needs almost as well as Phil.

Of course, the only other time Phil had assigned anyone else, it had resulted in Clint half-drowning in an anti-interrogation room. Now, neither of them could real bring themselves to trust anyone else.

"None of the above. I've a surprise for you today. Come on."

Todd took off in a jog and Clint followed. They rounded the edge of the building and the open training field came into view. It was  _usually_ open at least. Today it had a huge structure spread across it. There were brick walls, poles, blocks of concrete, one-story roof tops, and other structures spaced across the field.

"What the hell is this?" Clint asked, though he was already intrigued.

" _This_ is a brand-new parkour training course. Phil tells me you do shit like this all the time on missions and I'm phasing it into my general training program. I figured I'd give you the first shot at it. We just got it finished yesterday."

"This is awesome, nobody's done it yet?"

"Nope, you're the first, so this is your chance to set the course record and crush everyone else's chance before they even know they have a chance."

Clint laughed already stretching out his shoulders.

"Bet you I could do it in under four minutes."

"Your first time? Twenty bucks says you won't do it in under five."

"Easiest twenty bucks I've ever made." Clint smirked at the trainer. "Rules?"

"You have to go over or through every structure, no going around. You can touch the ground if you need to. It's arranged like a course, so just follow the natural flow of the obstacles."

Clint nodded and moved to what seemed to be the starting line. When Bryan didn't correct him, he settled into a stance.

Todd moved to stand next to him, pulling a stopwatch from his pocket.

"Ready?"

Clint nodded.

"Go."

* * *

Coulson snapped his file closed as he walked through the training gym. He pushed the door open and immediately headed to his left. Todd had told him about the parkour course when he'd first started designing it. Phil had thought it was a great idea, another way for Clint to train in a way that was most beneficial for him.

Clint always did better when he had a goal. In this case, a time to beat.

It's why he loved sparring. He loved the prospect of being a victor. He loved running because he always wanted to get faster. He loved marksman training because he could always make the shot more difficult, and he could always shave milliseconds off his time to hit different sequences of targets. He hated calisthenics because it was so repetitive, but Coulson had started challenging him to do more, faster and he'd come around.

Clint liked a challenge.

Phil rounded the building and smirked.

Todd was running along the side of the course, bills of what looked like money fanned out in his hand, jeering at Clint as he moved expertly through the course.

They neared the end of the course and Clint went rolling across the finish line at the same time Todd pressed a button on his stopwatch.

Phil laughed when Todd made a sound halfway between a cheer and a groan. They both looked up at the sound of Phil's laugh.

"Phil! Your boy is taking all my money!"

"Looks like you two are training hard." Phil couldn't hold back a grin as he moved across the grassy expanse between them.

"He's kicking this course's ass," Todd praised.

"Well, this I need to see."

Phil shot a grin at Clint who looked extremely proud.

" _This_ is mine." Clint snatched the fan of bills out of Todd's hand and held them out to Phil. "Wanna hold my winnings for me?"

"I'd be glad to."

Clint handed over the money and jogged toward the start. Phil and Todd followed more slowly.

"That kid is ridiculous." Todd shook his head in awe. "First time through the course, he did it in 3:48, didn't touch the ground once. He's gotten down to 2:28. I bet him he couldn't do it in under 2:30 and of  _course_ he did. I think he's hustling me."

Phil smirked, studying the course as they walked.

"He can do it in 2:20," Phil decided.

"No way," Todd denied. "He's doing everything the absolute best he can and he's holding steady around that 2:30 mark, he got a good jump off of that wall, that's why he got down to 2:28 this time."

"What was your last bet for?"

"Fifty bucks."

"Double or nothing he does it in 2:20 or less."

"You might as well give me the money now, Phil."

"We'll see." Phil smirked again. "Can I tell him something really quick?"

"Go ahead, it won't help."

Phil's smirk widened and he jogged to where Clint was draining the last of a blue Gatorade at the start of the course.

"What are you two cooking up over there?" Clint asked suspiciously.

"I just bet him that you could do the course in 2:20."

Clint arched an eyebrow.

"I don't know, Phil, I've been nailing all the transitions and shaved off as many seconds as I can."

"That third wall. When you get over it, do you look before you jump to the next structure?"

"Yeah, I have to gauge the distance."

"How many times have you done the course?"

"Seven or eight."

Coulson smiled slightly. Only Clint could do a physically-taxing course like this seven or eight times and only get faster.

"Then you  _know_ the distance now. Same with all the other jumps. You can get down to 2:20, I know you can."

Clint still looked doubtful.

"Would I have bet him a hundred bucks if I didn't think you could do it?"

Clint's eyes widened.

"A hundred bucks? Are you crazy?"

"Just confident."

Clint shook his head, but there was pride in his eyes, pride that Coulson was so confident in him.

"Fine. I'll give it a shot."

"Good man," Phil praised, nodding at Todd.

"Ready?" Todd yelled from where he stood.

Clint nodded.

"Go!"

Phil ran alongside the course as Clint moved through it. The kid was an expert at this. He was up and over walls so quickly he looked like he was flying, weaving his body through gaps like they were ten feet wide instead of four, and exploding out of jumps like the surfaces were springs instead of solid.

Phil had one heart-stopping moment when Clint was hanging off the backside of a wall like a monkey, with a window opening as his next target on the next structure. Clint pushed off his perch, balling up and twisting his body even as he passed cleanly through the window and caught himself on a drain pipe on the  _next_  structure. Phil had been sure Clint was going to crack his head open on the window frame. He should have known better.

Finally, Clint was sprinting across the final rooftop, and flipping acrobatically into the air to land on the top of the final wall. He leapt, catching his hands on the first of the last series of scaffold bars. He folded his body, threading through the crossed bars, hooking his knees on the next ones, and dropping backwards to flip under them. He released and momentum carried him up, to catch the next X and then he propelled his body through the final opening and dropped the ten feet to the ground, tucking into a roll over the finish line.

"Time?" Coulson demanded of Todd, who was already shaking his head in disbelief.

"2:19:56," he stated with a scoff. "You fucking played me. You ran game on me, Phil, admit it."

"I did no such thing, I just knew that he could do better 2:20. Hell, give him a few weeks and he'll probably get even faster."

Coulson clapped Clint on the shoulder proudly. Clint couldn't help but grin in response.

"But we'll have to wait to test that theory, Clint, we've got an assignment."

"We?" Clint wasn't quite able to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice.

"Yep, I'm going with you as tactical support on location."

Clint didn't even try to hold back his grin this time.

* * *

"What do you know about the Croatian War of Independence?" Phil asked as he dropped a mission brief on the table in front of Clint. A bottle of blue Gatorade and a Hershey's candy bar followed a moment later. Clint immediately tore open the chocolate and tossed a piece in his mouth.

"Fought from '91 to '95 between Croatia and Serbia and the Serb-controlled Yugoslav People's Army. Sparked when Croatia tried to leave Yugoslavia, but Serbia said 'no-no'. They wanted to expand "Greater Serbia" and that included conquering Croatia. When push came to shove, Croatia managed to pull it out in for good in '95 with Operation Flash and Operation Storm. There was a lot of fall out and the economy was in the crapper but they've been pulling themselves up by their own bootstraps ever since," Clint replied easily.

Coulson smiled proudly.

"Somebody actually did their homework on wars fought for independence that I assigned four months ago."

"Hey, I  _always_ do the homework you assign," Clint scoffed. At Coulson's withering look he quickly amended, "Okay, so not always but I did do that one. Even though the fact that I still have homework as a twenty year old, soon to be twenty  _one_  year old, is ridiculous."

"Noted."

Clint rolled his eyes.

"What's the mission?"

Coulson motioned for him to open his file and Clint did so immediately.

"Who's this handsome little bastard?"

"Let me introduce you to Josif Andrić. He's ex-Serbian military and he's part of a sect that didn't like the way the war went. We've got word that he's planning to make a move on Stjepan Mesić. He's the…"

"The current president of Croatia," Clint finished knowingly, studying the picture of Andrić closely. "He's gonna be in the open?"

"He's leaving for a trip to Podgorica, Montenengro in three days to formally accept the honorary citizenship they awarded him last week. He's going by car to the airport and taking a private jet to Podgorica, in spite of the typical March weather. That's Andrić's window  _–_ either that or when Mesić gets back seven days later."

"What's Andrić's play? Assassination?"

"We're not exactly sure, but we have confirmed intel that he's on the ground in Zagreb."

"What's our mission?"

"Find him and stop him by any means necessary."

"No prejudice this time?"

Coulson smiled slightly. Clint actually sounded disappointed.

"If we confirm that he's going try and eliminate the president and start a whole new war, then you bet your ass we'll take the bastard down with prejudice. Until then, you'll have to settle for just taking him down."

"I can do that." Clint's face lit up with a smirk this time. "When do we leave?"

"Wheels up in thirty."

"I haven't even had breakfast yet," Clint complained, though he was already flipping his file closed and running through his packing list in his head.

"I'll grab you something from the mess hall and meet you in the hangar," Coulson promised.

"Am I flying?"

"Not this time, our chauffeur is dropping us off and then picking up a team in Austria and then swinging back for us."

"Fine, and I swear to God if you get me one of those dehydrated fruit granola things again I will harm you. That shit was disgusting."

"It was healthy."

"My point exactly."

"So you'd rather some high-protein oatmeal?"

"Damn it, Phil, now I've lost my appetite."

"Unlikely."

* * *

Clint moved around his room in just a pair of black cargo pants, hair still dripping from his military-quick shower. He tossed his latest novel in his book,  _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone,_ into his bag and then tossed his favorite Desert Eagles in on top of it. He bundled up fresh t-shirts, an extra pair of pants, boxers, a pair of athletic shorts, and socks, lots of socks, and crammed them in with the book and the weapons.

His combat knife, something he'd taken off a guy in Romania, was already sheathed at his back. He wasn't terribly fond of the knife's balance, but it was the best knife he'd come across and he didn't have much time to go shopping.

He pulled a t-shirt on and shrugged into his layered grey zip-up hoodie and black jacket. A glance at his beside clock said he had exactly two minutes to get to the hangar.

"Shit."

He zipped his bag closed with a snap, slung his quiver over his shoulder and started searching frantically for his boots. He spied one sticking out from under his bed. He went to his hands and knees, snatching the wayward footwear and hooking his bag over his shoulder. He crammed his iPod into his back pocket and started hopping towards the door on one foot, pulling one boot on while the other hung by its laces from his teeth.

Foot finally encased, he left the boot untied and pulled his door open. He hopped on his other foot down the hall and got his second boot on in the same fashion he had his first.

That was when he remembered his sniper rifle sitting happily in its case on his bed.

"Son of a bitch."

He hurried the six feet back to his door, waited impatiently for the palm reader to confirm his identity and unlock the door, and then rushed back into the room. He snagged his sniper rifle case by the strap and looped it over his head as he ran back out of the room, nearly tripping over his shoe laces as he went.

He got to the hangar in time to see that Coulson wasn't even there yet. With a sigh that was partly relief, partly frustration, he made his way onto their jet, nodding a greeting at their pilot. He had just finished setting down his bag and pulling off his rifle and his quiver when Coulson strolled up the ramp. Clint sat to tie his shoes, all the while smirking evilly at Phil.

" _You're_ late _."_

"90 seconds."

"Still late. What was that you told me when I was late for morning training that one time?"

"One time?" Coulson scoffed.

"If you're not early, you're late. That's what you said."

"And were  _you_ early?"

"You can't prove otherwise because  _you_  were late."

"You're about one smart-ass remark away from not getting what's in this bag."

Coulson held up a small white bag and Clint was immediately hit with a delicious smell.

"Is that a bagel?"

"Yep, complete with cream cheese and butter to add at your discretion."

"Plain, no extra shit?"

"You think I don't know you at all?"

"Extra cream cheese?"

"Again, you think I don't know you?"

"From that place on 56th?"

"What do you think I am, a miracle worker?" Coulson defended. Clint looked vaguely apologetic. "Of course it's from the place on 56th."

"You're the best," Clint crowed as Phil tossed him the bag. "How did you get this?"

"I know a guy."

"Of course you do," Clint shook his head in a mixture of awe and appreciation.

"Don't say I never did anything for you." Coulson pointed at him with a firm look and moved to greet their pilot.

Clint smiled after him.

That was one thing he could  _never_  say about Phil Coulson.

* * *

End of Chapter One

And we are underway once again! 

You can, as always, expect daily updates! (hopefully lol :) )

Thanks for reading!

Here's your preview of Chapter 2

* * *

_"So, I think it's about time to get some food. You know a place?" Phil asked after a look at his watch._

_"Nope," Clint replied simply._

_Phil blinked at him, but Clint only shrugged._

_"What? I've never been to Croatia before, much less Zagreb."_


	2. I Wondered, Would I Give My Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> I am so sorry this took so long - anybody that's ever moved halfway across the country understands that its a crazy, hectic time lol - I'm hoping I can update regularly here again. So sorry again :)

_Loyalty means nothing unless it has at its heart the absolute principle of self-sacrifice._

**_Woodrow T. Wilson_ **

* * *

"I'm just saying how can everybody be so scared shitless of this guy that they won't even say his name?"

"It's a book, Clint."

"I  _know,_ but I just don't see how the guy can be  _that_  bad."

"The whole evil, murdering, dark wizard thing isn't enough for you?" Phil smirked.

He didn't have to look at Clint to know he was rolling his eyes.

"I was just saying," Clint grumbled, putting his ear buds back into his ears and returning his attention to the book.

Coulson returned his attention to the mission file. He put it down with a quiet sigh when Clint suddenly pulled out his ear buds and spoke again.

"And what the  _hell_ kind of name is Dumbledore _?"_

"You do realize you're criticizing one of the most famous series of all time."

"Not criticizing." Clint frowned. "Just analyzing."

"Mhmm," Phil hummed. He snuck a glance at his watch. They still had seven hours of their nearly nine-hour flight. Clint was literally his favorite person in the world, but he did  _not_ want to listen to him talk about his newly discovered obsession with the Harry Potter series for the next seven hours.

And he knew Clint could do it. If he was comfortable enough, Clint could become a regular chatterbox. Coulson knew that there were exactly two situations Clint felt comfortable enough to become that chatterbox: pretty much anytime he was alone with Coulson and when he was on the other side of a comm device.

Luckily, Phil had a, thus far, foolproof plan to get Clint to be quiet without hurting the kid's feelings. He hid a yawn behind his hand and stretched.

Clint blinked at him.

"Tired?"

"I think I'll take a nap. We can talk through the mission details in a few hours."

"Yeah, okay." Clint slid his ear buds back into place and watched Phil rest his head back and close his eyes. He smiled slightly to himself and looked back at his book. Phil really had a heart of gold.

Clint knew that he tended to talk a lot when it was just he and Phil. It wasn't a conscious decision he made to converse more. He had just gotten so comfortable around Phil that his once-natural propensity for chatter reemerged. He'd sniffed out Phil's ruse to get him to be quiet about eight months after he'd joined SHIELD. He left Phil to his sleeping-trick, though, because it was a great cue for Clint to know he was talking too much. And could the guy be any nicer about it?

Clint would have just told himself to shut up.

* * *

Phil hadn't meant to actually fall asleep, but when he blinked his way into consciousness four hours later, he ruefully realized his ruse had worked better on him than it had on Clint. He rubbed his hand over his face and looked over at Clint.

Check that. It had worked just as well on Clint.

His agent was sitting in the exact same position he had been four hours ago. He was slouched low in his chair, his feet propped up on the empty co-pilot seat in front of him. His book sat open in his lap with his hands loosely holding it in place. However, his chin had dropped down to his chest and his eyes were closed.

Phil quietly stood and slipped the book off of his lap. Clint flinched awake, his eyes flying open, wide and startled.

"You're all right," Coulson soothed quietly. "But your neck won't be if you sleep like that. Come on."

He gently pulled Clint from the chair and deposited him on the floor of the jet, pack under his head. Clint's eyes were already closing again. Phil glanced down at the book as he settled back in his own chair, Clint's breathing already deep and even once more.

Phil shrugged and flipped the book open to the first page.

* * *

"Do we have any intel on where this guy is?" Clint asked, flipping through his mission brief absently. He knew the information he wanted wasn't in there, but held a useless hope that it would magically appear.

"Nope, that's up to us," Phil replied, pulling their non-descript black sedan into the alley behind their safe house, an equally non-descript one-story home. He shifted into park and turned the car off. Clint was already climbing out and walking around the trunk. Phil pulled the trunk release and pulled himself out of the car.

Clint was already slinging his quiver over his shoulder. Phil joined him, pulling his own go-bag out and his large black backpack that housed his laptop, all their communications gear, and his files. Clint grabbed his go-bag and his weapons bag in the same hand and pulled out his rifle case with the other. Phil pushed the trunk closed and led the way to the house's back door.

Clint acted as cover as Phil flipped aside the cover of what looked like a fuse box and revealed the handprint reader. He pressed his palm against the screen and a few moments later the lock clicked open.

"It looked bigger from the outside," Clint mused as he dropped his bags on the couch. There was a small open kitchen on the other side of the living room, an open door that led to a small bathroom, and a closed door he assumed was the bunkroom. There were just two windows - one in the kitchen, showing a nice view of the side of the next house and one at the front, near the front door.

"That's because this safe house has a  _special_ feature," Coulson smirked, carrying his bags over to the far wall of the living room and shifting a picture of a boat on a stormy sea. He typed a short code into a now unhidden keypad and the wall shifted.

"Holy shit!" Clint smiled, moving forward as the wall slid away to reveal a weapons rack, fully stocked. "Why don't I have one of these at SHIELD?"

"You don't have to hide your weapons at SHIELD," Phil replied, pressing a button on the rack and stepping back as the wall moved back into place. Clint shook his head in awed appreciation and went to retrieve his bags as Phil pushed open the bunkroom door.

"Now I know that you noticed the flat-top roof on this house," Coulson stated as Clint dropped his stuff on one of the cots. "And I know you've been wondering if you were going to have to monkey up the side of the building."

Phil pulled open what Clint thought was a closet door, but instead it revealed a set of narrow stairs. He couldn't help but smile.

"How the hell do you do this every time?" Clint laughed as he led the way up the stairs.

"Trust me, it takes some doing," Phil replied as he followed.

Clint had to stop when they hit a horizontal door. He grabbed the handle of the metal sliding latch and shifted it, finally pushing the door open.

"What do you think?" Phil asked as he climbed out and joined Clint where he had moved to stand on the edge of the roof.

"Very nice," Clint smirked.

"So, I think it's about time to get some food. You know a place?" Phil asked after a look at his watch.

"Nope," Clint replied simply.

Phil blinked at him, but Clint only shrugged.

"What? I've never been to Croatia before, much less Zagreb."

Phil couldn't respond for a moment. He just hadn't expected it. Clint  _always_  had a place wherever they went. He had been so many places during his year as an assassin that they'd never run into a place yet where he hadn't been and discovered an amazing place to eat.

"Don't look so worried, Phil. I'll find a place."

"Is it sad that my first thought was,  _'Then how will we know where to eat'?"_

Clint laughed.

* * *

"How do you even find these places?" Phil asked as he chewed.

"Well, there are a lot of factors that go into deciding if I'm going to try a place," Clint replied seriously, taking a drink from his cup.

"Such as?" Phil couldn't help his amused grin. He just  _knew_  this was going to be a fascinating explanation.

"Well first of all, the smell."

"The smell?"

"Yup. Does it smell good."

Phil inclined his head in agreement. That made sense.

"Then there's the tables."

Phil arched an eyebrow.

"Are the tables clean," Clint explained, gesturing around demonstratively at the clean tables around them.

"Fair enough. What else?"

"The staff."

"What about them?"

"Are they aesthetically pleasing."

Phil shot him a doubtful look.

"And finally, there's the  _sranje."_

"What's that?"

"The only Croatian word I know."

"What's it mean?"

"Bullshit," Clint replied just before taking a large bite of his food.

Phil huffed a laugh and glared half-heartedly.

"There's no process, Phil, I just choose a place that has people in it and hope for the best."

Phil shook his head in amusement.

"How do you pick a favorite?"

"I eat at  _a lot_ of places until one stands out."

"So that's your big secret? You choose at random?"

Clint smirked, taking another bite.

"And here I thought there was method to your madness."

"That'll teach you to think that there's ever a method to any of my madness."

"Have you ever had a tie between two places?" Phil went on with an eye roll.

"No, but I have gotten food poisoning in four different countries."

Phil looked doubtfully at the plate in front of him, his appetite fading.

Clint laughed and took another bite.

* * *

"Please don't point that thing at me," Phil stated as he worked to bring their communicators online.

"You don't trust me?"

Clint turned his body anyway, loosing an arrow at a target he'd drawn on the wall with a sharpie.

"I don't trust your hands since you just spent the last twenty minutes throwing up your meal. You should really lie down."

"Yeah, mental note to cross  _that_ place off the list _,"_ Clint replied as he pulled another arrow, nocked and released it _._

It didn't escape Phil that he had completely ignored the second part of Phil's statement.

"You're paying to get that wall fixed, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, take it out of my check." Clint drew another arrow, but paused as he brought it up to bear.

"Clint?" Phil glanced over his shoulder when he didn't hear the familiar sound of impromptu target practice.

Clint was already moving, bow and arrow clattering to the floor. Phil winced when he heard knees hit linoleum in the bathroom and the sound of retching a moment later. Phil stood and went to the kitchen, retrieving a water bottle from the fridge, and then moving to the bathroom.

"I think you should reconsider your strategy for finding restaurants," he advised as he unscrewed the lid to the bottle and held it out to his panting agent.

"You kidding?" Clint nearly groaned, taking a drink from the water bottle, swishing it around and then spitting it into the toilet. "I'm halfway to double digits now."

Phil shook his head in fond exasperation and reached to put the back of his hand against Clint's forehead where he'd all but collapsed across the toilet lid, propped up on his sprawled arms. He couldn't help the shot of pride when Clint didn't pull away or even flinch at the contact.

"Low-grade fever. No more target practice, you're lying down."

"I'm fine," Clint protested. It bore really no weight when he hadn't lifted his head from where he had it resting on his arm.

"Yeah, okay, tough guy," Phil patronized. He grabbed Clint's closest bicep. "Come on."

He pulled Clint up and walked him to the couch where he could keep an eye on him. He pulled the quiver free from Clint's shoulders and deposited him onto the cushions. Clint curled into an impressive ball on his side with a groan.

"You know, I should really reconsider my strategy for finding restaurants."

"Sounds like a good idea. I wish I'd thought of it," Phil mocked lightly, putting a trash can next to the couch and setting the water bottle on the floor. He crouched next to Clint's head and looked at him seriously.

Clint blinked at him.

"You think you can keep down some oral medication?"

Clint opened his mouth to respond, but Phil went on before he could.

"Do  _not_ tell me you don't need it. Honestly, Clint, can you keep it down?"

Clint closed his mouth and nodded. Phil mirrored the motion and stood, retrieving a bottle of Zofran from the small stock of medicines stored in the bathroom. He watched just long enough to see Clint put one of the pills in his mouth so it would dissolve, and moved away to the bunkroom to retrieve Clint's iPod. He tossed it lightly onto the couch in front of the archer's chest. "Try to get some rest."

Clint slid his ear buds into place and was sleeping moments later.

Phil moved quietly to pick Clint's bow up off the floor. He folded it up and slid it into its place on the quiver and then returned the abandoned arrow to its fellows. He rested the quiver against the side of the couch, then moved back to his place at the small desk in the corner to continue bringing their comms online.

* * *

"You sure you're up for this?" Phil asked twenty hours later as he handed over the small earpiece.

"I haven't puked in hours. I'm good to go," Clint assured, sliding the comm unit into place. "Besides, I want to get a lay of the city."

"All right, let's take a look at the map."

Phil spread their city map over the desk top.

"We're here." Phil marked a red X with a marker. "President will be in the open from here," he made another mark, "to here." He added a third mark and drew a line following the streets between the final two marks.

Clint nodded, scanning the route and committing it to memory.

"Okay," the archer began, "since we don't know the play it could be a hit or a grab, both methods require a different approach and execution."

"So we plan for both," Phil decided. "If you were doing a hit, how would you do it?"

Clint's eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"If it were me, I'd send an arrow through his heart from a vantage point over here." Clint picked up the pencil and motioned at a small area on the map. "But they aren't as cool as me and won't be using arrows. That's not good for us because it widens the places they could hit from."

He grew silent as he studied the map.

"He'd be covered while in the car," Phil put in thoughtfully.

"Unless they pulled a car bomb," Clint countered.

"How would they get it on the car?"

Clint shrugged a shoulder in acquiescence.

"Best way to do a hit is with a sniper. I'd probably do it as he arrived at the airport."

"There's more people around at the airport," Phil pointed out.

"Yeah, but better vantage points, more cover, and easier exits."

Phil nodded, but Clint was shaking his head.

"Short of playing bodyguard, we can't effectively stop this guy if we don't know what angle he's coming at us from. There are dozens of good vantage points in the kill zone. We can't cover all of them or know for sure which one he would use."

"Sounds like we need to find this guy before he can make his move then," Phil deduced.

"That's the best option for keeping the president alive."

"Okay." Phil sat back, pushing the map away and reaching for his coffee. "We know what he looks like, we'll split up and start casing the city."

"Block by block scouting. Awesome." Clint let out a loud sigh. "Can I at least bring my bow?"

"As long as you stick to rooftops and alleys," Phil allowed, pushing his own ear piece into place. "Comm check."

Clint winced, his finger going to his ear and ripping out the earbud.

"What?" Phil asked.

"Serious feedback."

Phil frowned. Usually their comms had no issue being in close proximity. He moved across the house and into the bunkroom.

"Comm check," he stated again.

" _Better, _"__ Clint replied. Phil moved back to the living room.

"All right, let's get going."

"If this guy is planning to make his move when the president is leaving town, we have less than two days to find him," Clint pointed out with a frown.

"Then let's hope we get lucky," Phil replied as he headed out the back door while Clint headed towards the side door and the fire escape that he knew was beyond it.

"Yeah, cuz luck is  _totally_  my thing," Clint muttered.

* * *

"Did you just say you saw a monkey running across a mine field?" Clint asked with a frown as he gauged the distance between his current building and the next rooftop.

" _No,"_ Phil grumbled across the comms. __"I said, do you have money to pick up some food?"__

"Yeah that makes more sense. Sure, I saw this place a few blocks back that looked good."

He took a few steps back and took a running jump to the next building. He tucked into a roll and came up to his feet, frowning again as Coulson's response was interrupted by random bouts of static.

"Say again? Because something tells me you didn't say 'dope is the key to a performance of a lifetime.'"

" _I said I hope we don't have a repeat performance of last time."_

"I hate to break it to you, Phil, but I think the comms are broken."

" _No shit."_

Clint smirked. He'd heard that one loud and clear.

" _Meet back at the house in an hour."_

"Will do."

Clint moved in a crouch to the edge of the building, going to his stomach as he reached it. He spent the next several minutes scanning the area. They hadn't seen any sign of their target since they'd started looking yesterday. The president was scheduled to leave in the morning and Clint found himself hoping that they planned to make their move when he got back instead of when he was leaving.

Because if Josif Andrić made his move tomorrow morning, Clint knew they wouldn't be able to stop him.

* * *

_"Do you know what this is?" Victor asked._

_"I bet you're gonna tell me." Clint managed to force out._

_"It's a device that scans for transmitting frequencies. I will find your communication device."_

_"What device?"_

_"Who are you in communication with?"_

_"I'm not in communication with anyone," Clint denied, watching with forced calm as Victor turned on the device and brought it towards Clint's head._

_"Clint…" Coulson sounded for the first time since Clint had known him like he didn't know what to say._

_Clint glared straight at Victor when the device lit up as it hovered next to the left side of his jaw._

_"Interesting." Victor smiled darkly. "Open his mouth."_

_A steel-like grip locked on his jaw, forcing it open as Victor slipped the device back into his pocket. He pulled out a small flashlight and clicked it on, turning it to shine into Clint's mouth. Clint darkened his gaze, trying not to show the fear he was feeling. Victor's eyes lit up suddenly._

_"Ivan, go find Josef and ask him if we may borrow some pliers."_

_Ivan, presumably, left quickly but the grip on his jaw didn't waver._

_"Are you fond of the dentist, Hawkeye?"_

_Clint glared._

_"I, personally, despise the practice," Victor continued conversationally, "No matter how many times they tell you it will not hurt, it always does." Ivan practically sprinted back into the room, handing a grungy pair of pliers to Victor._

_Clint tried to pull away, but the grip on his jaw was unrelenting. Victor pushed the pliers into his mouth and the archer exhaled sharply through his nose._

_"I am pleased to tell you, Hawkeye, that this will hurt very badly." Victor smiled darkly as he closed the pliers around Clint's molar._

_Clint determination not to show pain or weakness lasted for the next ten seconds. Then Victor adjusted his grip and really started pulling._

_Clint couldn't help it then. At that point nothing mattered but the pain._

_And he screamed._

* * *

Phil sighed deeply where he was studying their map, different sections of it now shaded to indicate where they'd already searched. The president had made it onto his plane without incident this morning. Phil and Clint had both breathed a sigh of relief from where they were perched on a high rooftop near the airport, Phil searching the surrounding area with binoculars and Clint doing the same with the scope on his sniper rifle.

Neither of them had really breathed as the president's car pulled up and he was escorted by heavily-armed guard through a private entrance to the airport. They hadn't really started breathing again until they were watching his plane take off.

They'd spent the rest of the day searching for Josif Andrić's location and the net was closing slowly. Clint had sacked out on his cot in the other room just over an hour ago, but Phil couldn't get his mind to shut off. He was just getting ready to start a pot of coffee in the kitchen's archaic coffee machine when he heard it.

It was barely noticeable, but in the quiet silence of the house it was like a beacon to Phil. A gasp. It was quiet and if he hadn't known the pattern of Clint's breathing as well as his own, he might have dismissed it all together. But the gasp was followed by another rapid breath, too loud to be that of calm sleep.

He moved towards the bunkroom, coffee forgotten.

Clint was on his side, back to the wall. He never slept with his back to the room. One hand was under his pillow, the other was clenched, white knuckled, around his blanket.

Phil waited a moment, waiting to see if he would come out of it on his own. Clint's dreams were unpredictable. Sometimes he woke moments after they started and he would be just as wild eyed and panicked as he was when he was trapped for long chunks of time. Phil usually woke him up if he didn't come out of it on his own after a few moments.

"Clint," he called out carefully, making sure to stay out of swinging distance as he crouched down a few feet away from the cot.

Clint's head twitched, as if he'd heard, but he didn't wake. Instead, his breathing picked up and he muttered something under his breath that Coulson didn't catch. He was about to call the younger man's name again when suddenly Clint was screaming.

The sound was like nothing Coulson had heard from his agent in a long time. Clint had learned to channel pain. He'd learned to laugh in the face of it. This yell was guttural and full of pain and fear and something about it was so terrifyingly familiar that Coulson was moving forward to comfort before he'd fully thought it through.

His hand touched his agent's shoulder and suddenly Clint was awake, swinging his knife, and backing himself right off his cot and onto the floor. He landed with a thud, legs tangled in his blanket.

"Easy!" Phil urged as he moved closer.

He had to block a swing of the knife. When Clint made to attack again, Phil was forced to twist the blade from his disoriented grip. That had the exact effect he knew it would: Clint panicked even more. Phil blocked a fist and pressed his hand against Clint's chest to keep him on the ground. Clint flailed, spitting threats in every language he knew. His breathing sped up even more and Coulson knew they were moving rapidly towards hyperventilation.

"Clint! It's me. It's Phil," he insisted, grabbing Clint's wrist when he tried to strike again.

"Let me go!" Clint shouted angrily, flailing again, but then his free hand went to his jaw, trying to stave off a phantom pain.

"Clint! Focus on my voice! Whatever you're seeing, whatever you're feeling, it isn't real! Snap out of it!" he ordered, watching Clint still suddenly, breaths still short and shallow.

"Phil?"

Phil wanted to curse in every language  _he_ knew because he hated that tone of Clint's voice with ever fiber of his being. He only ever heard it when Clint came out of a nightmare and it made Phil outrageously pissed at the same time it made him overpoweringly protective.

"It's me, you're safe. Deep breaths, you know the drill," Phil coached. He watched Clint strain to force his inhalations to deepen. Felt the muscles under his hand twitch under that strain. Abruptly every muscle under his hand tensed and Clint shot upright, scrambling past Coulson towards the trashcan. Phil winced as he forcefully expelled his dinner.

Phil moved to his side, waiting for it to play out. When he was finally done, Clint spit into the trashcan and all but dropped back to the ground, rolling to his back with his eyes closed and a fresh wave of erratic breathing to get under control.

Finally Clint blinked, his breaths gained a little control, and the last remnants of the nightmare disappeared. Phil withdrew the supporting hand he'd put on his shoulder as Clint dropped his head back against the floor.

"Sorry," Clint breathed. He swallowed purposefully, trying to ward off the bile in his throat and resisting the urge to touch his jaw again.

Phil gave him an affectionately exasperated glare for the apology. Like Clint ever needed to apologize for something like this. He reached to pat a hand against his agent's shoulder.

"What was it?"

"The Andes mission." Clint shook his head. "I haven't dreamed of that in forever."

"Well, it was fairly traumatic." Phil struggled to keep the pragmatism and wry humor out of his voice. Clint wasn't the only one with bad memories from that rather hellish trip.

"Fairly?"

"OK, I'll give you that one. It more or less sucked."

Phil watched as the younger man worked on slowing his breathing. The run-up – and the downside – to his nightmares had almost gotten routine, even if hand-to-hand combat normally wasn't a sidebar. He stayed in a crouch until Clint huffed out a breath, then drew a slow one back in.

 _And that's how you do it, kid._ Phil couldn't help but have some measure of pride at how his charge could pull himself together. It had kept him alive more than once. He waited until Clint's vision drifted to him, and then offered the young man a hand.

"Run?"

"Run."

They both changed quickly, pulling on running shoes, athletic pants and hoodies to account for the cold night air. On the way out, Phil nabbed the trashcan and left it outside the door. He'd clean it when they got back.

Phil let Clint take point and set the pace. Because of that, the first several minutes after they warmed up were closer to a sprint than a jog. Phil kept pace without complaint, letting Clint deal in his own way. Finally, Clint slowed and Phil drew up next to him.

"Trying to run me into the ground?" Phil asked around expertly controlled breathing.

He got his intended result when Clint smirked.

"Having a hard time keeping up, old man?"

"Ha, I could do this all day," Phil boasted dramatically.

"Careful, I might make you back that up," Clint teased.

"I could leave you in my dust if I really wanted to, rookie," Phil shot back with a smirk.

Clint laughed outright.

"Don't let me hold you back," he mocked.

"I wouldn't want you to get lost," Phil excused, taking a sudden left as they approached an intersection.

Clint cursed and reappeared at his side a moment later.

"Give a guy a little warning, would ya?"

"I knew you could keep up."

"Why the sudden trajectory change?"

"I found a place I think you're going to like."

Clint followed with no more questioning. The jogged in companionable silence through the city and finally Phil slowed to a walk a block away from the train station.

"We there?" Clint asked, barely breathing hard.

"Yep," Phil motioned at a bakery across the street. A oval red sign hung on the building with bright yellow letters that read 'Pekarnica Dora'. "Local bakery, supposed to be really good and they're open 24 hours."

"This place smells amazing," Clint commented as they crossed the street and made their way inside.

"Maybe you  _should_ judge a restaurant by its smell before you eat there," Phil pointed out with a smirk.

Less than ten minutes later, they were walking back the way they'd come, both munching on a fresh pastry.

"We need to find these guys. The president comes back in seven days and I'd prefer not to be laying on a rooftop crossing my fingers when he does," Clint stated around a mouthful of pastry.

"We're closing the net. We'll catch sight of them," Phil replied confidently.

"I think I just did," Clint answered suddenly.

"Where?" Phil asked, his gait not changing and nothing about his posture altering.

"Eleven o'clock, across the street."

Phil glanced in the appropriate direction. There, as plain as day, was Josif Andrić, walking purposefully down the street and then turning a corner and heading away from them.

"Go," Phil ordered firmly.

Clint stuffed the rest of the pastry – a large mouthful and more – into his mouth and disappeared into the shadows of an alley as they passed it, looking a bit like a chipmunk. Phil just kept walking, keeping his pace and taking a casual bite from his own pastry, shaking his head at the younger man's appetite.

He and Clint hadn't put their comms in, but he wasn't concerned. Clint would be following by rooftop and from a distance. He wouldn't be making a move tonight. He would follow until the target got to where he was headed and then he'd watch for a while to make sure he didn't move again. Then he'd come back to the safe house.

And Phil got the thrilling and exciting job of waiting for him.

* * *

End of Chapter Two

Crazy who you see walking the street in the middle of the night.

Here's your preview of Chapter 3

* * *

_"Here."_

_Phil held out a black plastic poncho._

_"Really, Phil? Really?"_

_"What?"_

_"It's a fucking trash bag that you cut arm holes and a neck hole in."_


	3. Could I Make That Sacrifice?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Here's chapter 4! I'll post a couple more chapters today to make up for taking so long to get them up :)

_It gives me strength to have somebody to fight for; I can never fight for myself, but, for others, I can kill._

**_Emilie Autumn_ **

* * *

Clint eased down to his stomach on the edge of the roof, watching Andrić walk into a small two-story house with a red tile roof and a skylight window. He focused for a few minutes on that window, gauging its location against the height of the house. He finally decided it led to an attic and would serve as the perfect entry point.

He flattened himself against his current rooftop when the front door to Andrić's house opened again. He watched a different man walk out, yelling something over his shoulder to the men inside. Clint's Serbian was more than a little rusty so he really only caught was something about food. The thought made Clint lick his lips, remembering the taste of his pastry.

He wondered what the odds were of getting Coulson to run out for more.

Clint stayed for another hour, watched the man return with two large bags of food. He was vaguely impressed with their foresight to make food runs in the dead of night when it would be easier to get lost in shadows – and now he was hungry  _again_.

When he was finally satisfied that they were in for the rest of the night, Clint shimmied back away from the ledge and pushed himself up. He took a moment to orient himself in his mental map, being sure to memorize this location so he could easily return. Then he headed back towards their safe house.

* * *

"They're holed up here." Clint marked the location on their map.

"You know what this means, right?"

"An ass load of surveillance." Clint was already planning different vantage points to alternate between. He never liked to watch from the same place for too long or more than once.

"We've got six days until the president's plane lands and he'll be in the open again."

"That's a short timeline." Clint frowned. This business wasn't one that should be rushed. If he had his way, he'd be doing surveillance for at least a week and a half. Rushing something like this ran forced you to run the risk of missing something, of missing some nuance or behavior that could be either vitally important or worthless. Clint preferred to have  _all_ of the information and decide what was important  _himself_ , rather than let a time shortage decide it for him. He wanted time to explore all the possibilities, all the possible outcomes and avenues. He wanted time to craft the big picture.

"We won't make a move until you're confident in our play. We'll do our best not to rush this." Phil knew full well how Clint liked to operate. He was methodical, liked to explore every possible outcome and avenue before he acted. He was an expert at seeing the big picture. This kind of situation put them both on edge.

Clint nodded, his mind already whirring with the information they already had – or more to the point, what they didn't. That skylight would be his entry point. That was just about the only thing he knew for certain.

The rest? The rest he only had six days to figure out.

* * *

Phil rolled onto his back, blinking blearily as consciousness returned. He stretched, rolling up to a sitting position and looking across the room to Clint's cot. The archer was sprawled out on his back, one earbud still in his ear, the other dangling down to his pillow. His breathing was deep and even and he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

As silently as he could, Coulson stood from his cot and moved out of the bunkroom. He yawned as he entered the kitchen, moving automatically to start a pot of coffee. He left the pot to brew and headed back to the bunkroom. Clint hadn't moved. Phil silently retrieved his old, grey Yale hoodie, and pulled open the door to the roof. He made his way up carefully and quietly.

The morning air was crisp and cold and Phil wasted no time pulling on his hoodie. He moved to the edge of the roof, already creating a plan for the day. They'd been watching Josif Andrić and his crew for four days now. Clint had been running seemingly endless hours of surveillance, learning their patterns and habits, creating and throwing out plans to take them out. They'd passed more than a few hours tossing ideas back and forth.

Clint had mentioned several times that he would rather a longer time line. He didn't like feeling rushed. But the president was returning to the city in 72 hours, so time was running out. The archer was set to return for another round of surveillance this morning once he woke up and they had a proper breakfast.

Clint had mentioned seeing a place he wanted to try.

* * *

Clint woke to the smell of coffee. He stretched, pulling his remaining earbud out of his ear and tossing his iPod to the mattress. He knew before looking that Phil wasn't in the room. He inhaled the scent of the coffee again and levered himself out of bed.

The door to the roof was open, but Clint headed to the kitchen first. He poured two cups of coffee, shoveled copious amounts of sugar into one of them, and headed back the way he'd come. He shifted both mugs to the same hand, making sure they were balanced before using his now free hand to snag his old ARMY hooded sweatshirt. He tossed it over his shoulder and made his way up the stairs to the roof.

Getting the horizontal door open was a trick without spilling the coffee, but he managed. Phil was suddenly there, taking one of the cups and thanking Clint for bringing it up.

"How long have you been up?" Clint asked, handing his own cup to Phil so he could pull his sweatshirt on.

"Not too long. Sleep alright?"

"Yeah, you?"

Phil nodded, looking back over their view of the surrounding neighborhood. Clint followed his gaze, inhaling the cool morning air, his mind on the mission at hand.

"I think I'm gonna get closer this time," Clint decided abruptly.

"What do you mean?" Phil frowned.

"I scoped around the whole building yesterday, that skylight is the perfect entry point. It'll take me into the attic."

"You want to go  _in_  the building?" Phil furrowed his brow thoughtfully. It was risky – amongst other things, it exponentially increased Clint's chances of getting caught – but something needed to change. After four days, they were no closer to a solution.

Clint kept talking.

"I've been watching them for four days. Judging by the men I've seen come and go, there could be a dozen to two dozen men in that building at any given time. We gotta shake things up because we only have 48 hours to put Andrić and his men down. Maybe if I'm  _in_  the building I can actually learn something we can use."

Phil found himself nodding reluctantly.

"All right, but only if the comm equipment is working properly."

Clint nodded, setting his cup of coffee on the ledge of roof.

"Now come on, old man, try to hit me.  _I dare you_."

Phil laughed lightly and set his coffee down next to Clint's.

"Where do you get all this energy?" he asked as he pushed up the sleeves to his hoodie and dropped into his fighting stance.

"I mainline sugar."

Phil laughed and lashed out loosely with his left fist. Clint, as he'd expected, ducked away. They continued to spar slowly and carefully, letting their muscles warm up and wake up rather than actually trying to score a hit. Ten minutes later, Phil arched a questioning eyebrow and Clint nodded.

Phil's next swing was hard and tight, a perfect hook. Clint ducked, twisting to avoid the second strike headed for his ribs. By then, Phil's right fist was jabbing back towards his face. Clint spun, dodging the blow before it could land and bringing his elbow hard into Phil's sternum. He was spinning again, away this time, before Phil could retaliate. Phil pursued him, this time swinging with his left fist.

Clint ducked, rising again to see Phil spinning into a high kick. He leaned backwards, feeling the air shift in front of him as Phil's leg passed an inch in front of his nose. As soon as the limb cleared his chest, Clint threw his hands backwards, launching his body to follow into a back handspring.

Phil re-set his stance after the failed kick, watching Clint land lightly on his feet after the flip. His agent was watching him with a familiar focused intensity. Phil knew that every twitch of his muscles, every shift of his eyes was being analyzed and used to gauge not only when the next attack would come, but also where and how it would come. He shifted ever so slightly to his right. Clint shifted subtly to match him. Phil shifted back to the left. Clint mimicked. Phil shifted back to the right.

Clint glared.

Phil smirked.

Clint's eyebrow arched in the most scolding fashion Phil had ever seen. Phil used that moment to move. Clint reacted as if Phil's teasing movement had never happened, as if his focus had never paused. Phil knew it hadn't. Phil often enjoyed attempting to break that deadly focus though. He hadn't been successful to date, but it was always entertaining to try.

Clint was a blur of motion as he defended against Phil's expert attack. He ducked under a right hook that Phil felt swing a little wide. The handler knew the hit to his ribs was coming before it did, because he'd trained Clint to exploit breaks in defense and Phil had his ribs open for a split second. A split second was all Clint needed.

Clint was out of reach before Phil had even fully absorbed the blow.

"Hope you enjoyed that, it won't happen again," Phil advised with a smirk.

Clint mirrored the expression.

"Uh-huh, we'll see, old man."

Phil attacked. Clint was ready. Four minutes later, Phil was on his back on the rooftop. He hooked his arm around the back of Clint's left knee, and forced the joint to bend. At the same time he reached up to snag a handful of Clint's sweatshirt. He twisted his agent forcefully to the ground, wincing when Clint's shoulder took the brunt of the fall.

Phil's moment of concern cost him.

He was just about to maneuver Clint into a submission hold when his arm was suddenly twisted a direction it wasn't supposed to twist. Legs locked around his neck and he pushed to his knees, looking for a way out. Clint rolled onto his shoulder blades, his hold never faltering. Instead, it tightened. Phil reached for Clint with his free arm, but Clint locked his free hand around his wrist, effectively keeping Phil's other hand trapped against Clint's chest.

Phil tapped out in the only way his subdued limbs could. He tapped his fingers against Clint's chest. He was released immediately and he sat back with a sharp inhalation of breath. Clint rolled up to sit facing him. Phil was pleased that there was at least a sheen of sweat on his agent's forehead.

"Wanna go for a run?" Clint offered. "There's a place I want to try for breakfast, but it's about three miles away."

"Sounds like a plan," Phil agreed. They locked their hands in a Roman grip and used each other as leverage to pull themselves up. Phil retrieved their coffee cups as Clint led the way down the stairs.

* * *

Three miles later they were sitting down in a small cafe-type restaurant, breakfast before them.

"So this is the first time I've implemented an actual process for choosing a restaurant. I feel like I had this voice incessantly telling me to stop choosing places at random."

"An incessant voice?" Phil arched an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Clint regarded him with a smirk. "It sounded a lot like you, actually."

"Oh really," Phil deadpanned.

"Yep,  _incessant_  and a touch pushy."

"Pushy."

"A touch," Clint smirked.

"Whatever it takes to get through that thick skull of yours," Phil smirked right back.

Clint playfully scowled.

"So what is this new process?"

"Very similar to the fake old one." Clint took a bite of his food.

Phil nodded in understanding.

"So smell is now a factor?"

"Yep, and general cleanliness."

"Anything else?"

"Not at the moment."

"That's it? Smell and general cleanliness?"

"It's a work in progress."

"I should hope," Phil replied with a shake of his head. "What about location?"

Clint shook his head negatively.

"Some of the best places are off the beaten path."

"Menu?"

"I'll eat just about anything, so not a big issue."

"Popularity?"

Clint opened his mouth to negate that suggestion as well, but then paused.

"You may be on to something."

"It's been known to happen."

"But not popularity with tourists. Popularity with  _locals_. That's how you know a place is really good."

"So there, a three-part selection process. Hopefully you can avoid adding to your tally for contracting food poisoning."

"No pain, no gain."

"I'm not sure food selection is exactly what that phrase was referring to."

* * *

"Am I still coming in clear?" Clint asked as he peered over the ledge of his roof at Andrić's building a half a block away. He'd been here for three hours already and things had been quiet so far.

" _So far."_

"I'm gonna start moving closer."

" _Be careful, let me know before you breach."_

"You got it, Overwatch."

Clint pushed backwards, and then to his feet. He was just about to make his way to the next rooftop when he saw the front door open on Andrić's building. He dropped back down immediately.

"Hold up, I've got activity."

" _What's happening?"_

"Front door is opening. Holy shit, that's Andrić. He's coming out for the first time since I started watching him."

" _Is he alone?"_

"No, looks like two with him. Am I clear to engage?"

" _Can you make...ot...re you are?"_

"Say again? I've got static."

" _Ca...make the shot...ou are?"_

Clint put the two together.

"Without breaking a sweat."

" _Do it."_

Clint was already standing, pulling his bow from the small of his back. He frowned, pausing when he noticed Andrić and his two men hadn't moved either way down the street, had instead paused at the curb as if they were waiting for something. He strung an arrow and pulled back, unwilling to waste this chance even if he  _was_ confused.

Just before he released, movement caught his eye. A black SUV pulled up to curb in front of the building, blocking Andrić from view.

"Son of a bitch," Clint scowled, dropping once again to his stomach.

" _What is it?"_

"We've got visitors."

" _Say again."_

"We've. Got. Visitors." Clint ground out each word carefully, making sure he was heard. "A black SUV just pulled up and it's blocking my shot."

There was a pause and Clint wondered if his words had been garbled by static.

" _Can y...ift positions?"_

"Shift positions? Not without risking getting spotted."

" _...n you see wh...is?"_

"Say again, Overwatch."

" _Can y... who it is?"_

Clint narrowed his eyes, watching several men climb out of the SUV and follow Andrić inside. All he saw was the back of heads.

"Negative."

" _Stan...own."_

"Confirmed, standing down."

" _This is ri...amn comms."_

Clint grinned slightly.

"Orders?"

" _Since when do y...uck about...ers?"_

Clint smirked as he filled in the blanks.

"I'm turning over a new leaf."

" _I didn't ca...at but I'm assum...was in line with your typi...art ass tendencies."_

"I think it's getting worse," Clint sighed. Their communications were getting more and more garbled.

" _Make sure they d...en come on b...ere."_

"Make sure they don't what?"

" _Just come ba...ere now."_

"On my way."

Clint was about to push back from the ledge for a second time but paused when he saw movement in the front window. He narrowed his eyes, pulling a small scope from one of his cargo pockets. He held it up to his eye, training it on the people he could now see talking. Andrić was the only one whose mouth he could see. He spent the next few minutes as Andrić talked to the new arrival, following one side of the conversation.

_You can assure your boss that we have taken every precaution._

Clint waited as one of the men responded.

_When he arrives this evening we will finalize our plans and begin to set things in motion._

Clint frowned.  _That_  didn't sound good. He perked up when the man Andrić was talking to, shifted and Clint got a view of his mouth.

_Mesić returns in less than three days and my boss wants assurances that everything is in place._

Clint waited for Andrić's response.

_When he arrives, he will see that everything is as he instructed._

They moved off towards the inside of the building and Clint pushed back from the ledge, moving back in the direction of the safe house.

"Overwatch, I've got some new intel."

" _Say ag..."_

"I'll just tell you when I get there," Clint sighed.

This issue with their comms was getting ridiculous. No way was Phil going to let him make a move in the field if their communications were down. He was overprotective like that. He hoped Phil had a strong word with the tech people when they got back because  _seriously_.

* * *

"They said this new player is arriving tonight?" Phil asked as he worked carefully on clearing up the frequency between their ear pieces.

"Yeah, sometime this evening. So I figure I head back there around four or five?"

"Four to be safe and make sure you're in position when whoever it is arrives."

"Did any of our intel suggest Andrić wasn't working alone?"

"I would have told you if it did."

Clint frowned thoughtfully, chewing on a piece of jerky.

"Do you think you can get it to work?" he asked, nodding at the comms.

"If not, we'll do it the old-fashioned way." Phil poked at the earbud, then nodded at his black backpack.

"I can't breach the building with a walkie." Clint frowned. "And I can't get ears on this meeting if I don't go in."

"I'm not letting you go into the house if we can't stay in communication," Phil countered firmly, in a tone that held no room for argument. That tone had never stopped Clint from arguing anyway.

"We need to figure out what the hell is going on. We need ears in there when whoever this is shows up. Phil, I could find out  _exactly_  what their plan is."

"You could also get yourself killed."

Clint's eyes clouded in offense.

"Your faith in me is heartening."

"You know that's not what this is about," Phil challenged, tossing a glare over his shoulder.

Clint scowled. Yeah, he knew. He knew Phil was an overprotective son of a bitch. But he liked his overprotective son of a bitch. Was grateful for him. Somebody had to look out for Clint, because he knew he wasn't very good at looking out for himself.

"You know it's the right play, Phil," Clint pointed out quietly. He could never be angry with Phil for trying to protect him, even if it was a tad irrational.

His handler sighed deeply.

"I swear to God, if you get yourself captured, I'm just leaving you there."

Clint smiled, knowing it was a lie.

"Now get some sleep. Something tells me you're going to have a long night."

Clint nodded and obediently moved towards the bunkroom.

"I'll wake you in a couple of hours."

Phil glanced over his shoulder in time to see the wave of response before the bunkroom door closed most of the way. Phil was grateful he left it cracked because he could keep an ear out for a nightmare that way. He turned back to his work on the comms.

He was definitely going to have words with the tech guys when they got back for sending them out with malfunctioning equipment. Strong words.

* * *

"Really? Rain?" Clint frowned out the window, glaring at the darkened sky and pouring rain. He wasn't particularly fond of rain. Hadn't been since his brother stabbed him years ago in the middle of a downpour and left him bleeding in the mud.

"Afraid you're going to melt?" Phil teased.

"No, I just don't like getting soaked to the bone. This is just going to suck."

"You'll be fine."

"Easy for you to say. You get to stay  _here_  and be  _dry_."

"Here."

Phil held out a black plastic poncho.

"Really, Phil?  _Really?_ "

"What?"

"It's a fucking trash bag that you cut arm holes and a neck hole in."

"You said you didn't want to get wet."

"You have no idea how much I want to hit you right now." Clint scowled. "Right in the face."

"So hostile," Phil scolded with a smirk as Clint stalked over to the bunkroom. Phil followed curiously, scoffing when he saw Clint digging through  _Phil's_ bag. He pulled out a black jacket that Clint knew to be waterproof.

"I'm taking this," Clint stated firmly, holding it up in demonstration.

"Thief," Phil accused lightly as he accepted Clint's quiver so the archer could pull the jacket on.

"You were gonna give it to me anyway, you just enjoy being a pain in the ass."

"Only for you, buddy," Phil laughed handing the quiver back so Clint could fit it on over the jacket.

Clint was still shaking his head in a reproachful manner as he snagged a black baseball hat out of Phil's bag next. He fitted it firmly on his head, ignoring Phil's half-hearted protest.

"Are the comms ready to go?"

Phil sobered from his teasing and led Clint back to his computer on the small desk. He handed Clint his earpiece.

"They tested clear earlier, but I'm not holding my breath that it'll stay that way. So just give me a play by play in case the line starts going out again. That way I'll at least have an idea of what's going on."

Clint nodded readily. He wasn't exactly keen on the idea of going out with a sketchy comm situation either, but this was the biggest break they'd had since they saw Andrić walking down the street in the middle of the night four, almost five, days ago.

Phil sighed.

"Just...just be careful, okay?"

"Always, Phil," Clint clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll let you know when I get there."

Phil nodded and watched Clint head for the back door.

* * *

"Yeah, this sucks about as much as I expected," Clint sighed as he glanced at his watch. It was just after seven and he  _really_  hoped that this new player showed up soon because he was cold and he was wet. He didn't like being either – a dislike born of a lot of time spent at roost for a sniper hit in similar conditions.

" _Still no m...nt?"_

"No, no movement. And yes, it's still coming through with static. I'm assuming it's the same on your end."

" _Yep. I don't li...is, Hawk."_

"I'm not exactly bursting with enthusiasm, either."

" _I've g...ad feel..."_

Clint narrowed his eyes, deciphering the words.

"Spidey sense tingling there, Overwatch?"

He stiffened when he saw a row of three black SUVs suddenly turn the corner onto the street.

"We've got movement."

" _What's hap..."_

"Three SUVs, pulling up to the building."

Clint put his scope to his eye, focusing on the middle SUV. He watched the driver door open and the man moved to pull open the rear door. Clint watched the driver pop open an umbrella and only then did another man step out of the SUV. Clint caught a look at his face as he turned to say something to the driver.

Clint scowled. He knew that face from somewhere, a SHIELD watch-list. He had a great memory, so when a name didn't immediately come to mind, Clint knew it was because he'd never learned the man's name to begin with.

"New player is on one of our watch-lists."

" _What level?"_

Clint thought it over, drawing up in his memory where he'd seen the face before.

"Priority level two."

" _You're sure?"_

"Pretty sure."

" _Do yo...who it is?"_

"No name, but I can recognize him if I see the list."

Clint watched Andrić greet the new arrival at the door and a few moments later a dozen men had emptied from the SUVs and disappeared inside.

"I'm changing position. I'm gonna make entry at the skylight."

Time to see what the hell was going on.

* * *

Phil stopped pacing and moved to his laptop when Clint informed him that the new player was on a SHIELD watch-list.

"What level?"

" _Prior...evel two."_

Phil paused. Level two was a step below what Clint affectionately called SHIELD's shit list. If Clint was right, this was a big player.

"You're sure?"

" _...etty sure."_

"Do you know who it is?" Phil asked as he logged into the database and pulled up the priority two watch-list.

" _No name, bu...ognize him if I see...ist."_

Phil scrolled down the page, taking in the different faces, trying to narrow the possibilities.

" _...anging position. I'm go...ntry at the sk..."_

Phil took a moment to embrace his frustration. The comms had done great for a little over an hour and then the static had started up again. It had gotten steadily worse in the hours that followed, and Phil was about ready to pull out his hair. He fruitlessly pressed his finger against the small black device in his ear, as if it would help clear the line. He didn't like this – not at all.

* * *

End of Chapter 3

Things are getting sketchy! Anybody else feel like intense, heart pounding music should be playing?

I'm going out of town this weekend kind of spur of the moment, but I will still be posting chapters (even if I have to do it on my phone, lol) but if I don't do my usual "thanks to those who reviewed" section, its because I'm doing it by phone :) Just fair warning! It's not because I don't love my reviewers...because I DO!

Here's your preview of Chapter 4

* * *

_It was when the remaining six men turned and started searching for Clint's location, that Coulson realized that was exactly what Clint had intended. It took every fiber of his self control to resist shouting out to draw their attention back to him when they saw Clint and opened fire. He knew that would defeat the whole purpose of the distraction._


	4. You Don't Think Twice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Kylen is my very awesome beta :) I owe her so many thanks that you don't even know!
> 
> Enjoy!

_His loyalty, so fierce and unwavering, makes my eyes water and heart ache._

**_Emily Giffin_ **

* * *

Clint eyed the distance from his current rooftop to the one across the small alley. Jumping from one slanted rooftop to another was never easy, but with his skills it was more than doable. He tilted his head a little to the side, doing a mental calculation, and then he nodded to himself and started backing up.

When he was satisfied he'd given himself enough room to get the proper momentum, he blew out a deep breath and started running. Running on a slanted surface was hard. Running on a slanted roof, in the rain, was harder. He felt one of his ankles slip and pull painfully a step away from the edge. He ignored it and pushed off the ledge with his left foot.

For a few moments he was weightless, flying through the air, with his arms spread out as if he was the hawk he was named for.

His boots hit the red-tiled roof at the same time and he immediately threw his momentum forward and tucked his shoulder. He'd known the slant of the roof would work against him, so he wasn't surprised when he came out of the roll onto to have to fight against gravity as his body slid towards the bottom edge of the roof. He immediately dug his heels into the tile and braced both his hands on either side of him.

He  _hadn't_  expected the tile he pressed his right hand against to be broken. The sudden pain his hand had him digging his heels in harder. He skidded to a stop and brought his wounded appendage around to inspect to damage – his hand was ripped to hell.

_Well, that's fucking awesome._

With a sigh, Clint pulled his knife and cut a strip off his undershirt. He stowed the knife and quickly wrapped the strip of fabric around his hand, using his teeth to help him tie it tightly. Then he rose fluidly to his feet, balance unaffected by the slant of the roof. He moved to the skylight window and pulled his knife again to aid him in forcing it open. He leaned through the window, scanning the dark attic quickly to insure that it was empty. Satisfied, he leaned further and flipped down, landing on the wooden floor lightly. He pulled off his baseball hat, rubbing his hand through his hair to dispel some of the water that had soaked through, and then pulling it back on.

He spied the attic door and made his way silently towards it. He listened carefully with his ear pressed to the wood. When no sounds were forthcoming, he twisted the handle and pulled the door open a crack. There was a dark stairwell on the other side.

With silence born of years of training, he made his way down the stairs and to the small door that he knew would lead to the second-floor hallway. He put his ear to the door again, listening carefully. When he was sure the hallway was clear he pulled that door open a crack, confirming with his eyes that he wouldn't be shot the moment he stepped into the hall.

But the hallway was dark and deserted, so Clint wasted no time slipping out into it and towards the stairwell he saw to the left. He first heard the voices four steps from the stairs. He cocked his head instinctively, tilting his head to expose one ear more to the sound, even as he crept down the stairs. He froze and crouched with his back against the wall when the opposite wall gave way to a banister and rail.

When no one immediately shouted, he eased himself down another step, suddenly having a clear view across the entry hallway to the open living area on the other side of the house. There was a man sitting at a computer next to the front window, a small device that looked like a satellite pointed at the glass. Clint frowned in confusion. The voices were louder now, and perfectly clear, so he quit moving and just listened.

"I assure you that we are completely secure," the one he recognized as Andrić insisted.

"You'll understand if I don't just take your word for it." Clint knew that man had to be the one from the watch-list.

"I found something," the man behind the computer announced suddenly.

There was a silence, so tense that Clint could feel it all the way up the stairs.

"Neven, go now, eliminate the problem," Andrić snapped at a man standing against the wall. Neven jumped into action immediately, motioning at something Clint couldn't see.

"Jakob, take Alec and Daniel and go with them," the mystery man ordered sharply.

Clint had barely scrambled back up the stairs and out of sight when a group of what turned out to be almost over a dozen men came pouring out of the room and towards the front door. He waited until the door closed behind them and then shifted silently down the stairs again just in time to hear words that chilled him to his core.

"Sir, one of the frequencies is in the house."

Clint's eyes widened as his mind raced to figure out what that meant. The pieces clicked into place with terrifying clarity. They'd picked up his comm frequency and he'd bet everything he had that the men that just went storming out of the house were on their way to the other end of that frequency.

They were on their way to Phil.

That thought froze everything inside him so painfully that it cost him the moment he needed to get away clean. As it turned out, Andrić and the mystery player came tearing out of the living room with guns drawn just as he forced himself to move. Bullets bit into the plaster of the wall behind him as he dove up the stairs.

He cursed as a hot piece of lead opened a crease on his hip. He didn't even pause to acknowledge the superficial injury as he sprinted back the way he'd come.

"Overwatch?" he barked into the comms as he tore up the attic stairs.

" _Cl..."_  static burst in his ear and he cursed again as he cleared the last stair and ran for the wall just opposite the skylight he'd used to get in. He ran up the wall two steps and then pushed off, twisting in the air and hooking his hands on the window edge. He dangled for a moment and then levered himself up, hearing loud footsteps on the attic stairs. He hooked his elbow over the edge and continued to pull himself up and through the window. He just got his feet clear when more bullets pinged off the window frame, one of them shattering the glass.

Clint wasn't paying attention to that because, in his haste to get out of the attic, he'd thrown his weight a little too much and was now slipping and sliding down the slick, slanted roof, raining pouring down around him. His boots slid right off the edge and he twisted, hooking his hand on the first broken tile he saw. Pain tore through his right hand again, but the cloth wrapped around it helped to protect his hand from getting completely shredded. His downward slide stopped and he wasted no time pulling himself back up. His hand stung but he pushed the pain to the back of his mind as he climbed back up the roof on his hands and knees.

Now that his momentum was stopped, it was easier to keep his balance. He pushed to his feet just as he saw a head appear through the skylight. He didn't wait for the gun that he knew would be closely following, he just ran.

He moved the opposite direction of the way he'd come because the building to the left had a flat roof. If he hadn't been coming from the other direction earlier, he would have made his approach this way. He'd been in a hurry though, and hadn't wanted to circle around.

Bullets bit into the tiles at his heels as he sprinted. A lucky shot shattered the tile his left boot planted on just as he was preparing to launch himself. His foot slid – a combination of the shattering tile and the slick rain – and he went into the jump more sprawling than he would've liked.

He hit the opposite roof hard on his right knee, rolling painfully over his quiver and slamming his elbow into the hard rooftop. He didn't have a chance to consider the fact that his knee was now throbbing because his pursuers were coming to the edge of the roof he'd just fled. He pushed himself to his feet and sprinted across the flat roof top, trying not think about how undisturbed he was by the gunfire peppering his trail.

Had getting shot at  _really_  become that routine?

He didn't look back when the gunfire stopped. He heard the grunts of men as they made the same jump he had, and he knew he couldn't waste the split second it would take to see how close they were. He hit the edge of the roof at a dead run, knowing he'd need all the momentum he could get make it to the fire escape on the opposite side of the alley. He'd spotted it when he'd first scouted the building, knew it was there, and knew it was going to hurt when he hit it.

It did.

The moment of weightless flight wasn't nearly as exhilarating as it usually was, because he had the entire time to think about how much the metal of that fire escape was going to _hurt_.

He hit with a jarring rattle that had more to do with the questionable stability of the fire escape than anything. Pain shot through his chest as he slammed into the rail of the third-floor landing. He managed to get his hands on the metal and keep himself from falling straight down. He knew he had precious seconds to get out of the line of fire. He looked down, knowing a two-story drop on a bruised knee was going to be risky.

He couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk hurting himself too badly to be able to get to Phil. He moved his left hand from the top of the railing to the base of the landing, then he let his body drop, catching his right hand on the landing as well. He swung his body forward, reaching again with his left hand only to have his fingers brush the metal of the nearest stair and not gain purchase. He readjusted his hold on the landing and ignored the fresh bullets bouncing off the metal above him. He tried again and his fingers tightened around the metal stair.

He pulled himself forward and latched onto the step with his other hand. Then he reached for the next lowest step and used his hands to make his way down the stairs until he was at the first-story height. Then he dropped.

His knee protested as he folded into a crouch, but Clint pushed the pain away, sprinting out of the alley and around the corner. He knew they couldn't pursue, couldn't make the jump he had. He ducked into another alley two blocks away.

"Overwatch!"

Nothing but static greeted him.

"Damn it, Phil! You've been made, your location is compromised! I repeat your location is compromised!"

" _Sa...again?"_

"Your location is compromised!"

" _I got no...that, Haw..."_

"Damn it!" Clint cursed, taking off in a sprint. He found another fire escape three blocks later and went back to the rooftops. Then he made quicker work of the distance between himself and the safe house than he ever thought possible.

* * *

"Hawkeye!" Coulson called out, desperation clouding his tone.

It had been several minutes since Clint had shouted Phil's code name over the comms only to go silent.

" _Ov..tch!"_

"Hawk! Talk to me!" Phil was relieved to hear his agent's voice but there was a note of desperation in Clint's tone that sent all sorts of warning bells off in Phil's head.

" _Da...il! Y..en...loc..."_ the rest of the sentence disappeared into static.

"Say again?"

There was a long burst of static and Phil cursed.

"I got none of that, Hawkeye, say again!"

" _D...it!"_

He didn't need to hear his agent to know he was cursing. The sentiment was shared. Something had gone wrong. But Clint wasn't hurt, or if he was, it wasn't serious. He'd become an expert at hearing pain Clint was trying to hide. Of course, it was hard to hear anything when he only got every other letter sound through the comm line.

Phil paced, waiting.

"Hawkeye!" he called again after a few silent minutes had passed.

There was no response for a long minute and then it was just a crackle.

Coulson resisted the urge to throw something breakable across the room. He shouldn't have let him go out with the equipment giving them problems. He should have pulled him back when the line started to gain static. He shouldn't have let him go into the building.

Coulson shook his head ruefully.

It wouldn't have mattered what he'd said. If Clint had seen a clear opportunity to find out what the plot against the Croatian president actually was, he would have gone in regardless of the risk. That was just how Clint operated. His safety was secondary, always. It drove Phil crazy just as much as it made him wildly proud.

He continued to pace and then there was a sudden burst of static over the line. The only word he ended up deciphering was "blown". That only meant one of two things in their world. Something had literally just blown up or they'd been compromised.

Phil moved to the window, already pulling his side arm. At first he didn't see anything, but then, four blocks down the street he saw two black SUVs turn the corner and head right for him. He watched them closely as they approached. One turned off a block away, down a street Phil knew would give him access to the alley behind the safe house.

He watched the first SUV pull to a stop across the street, but no one got out yet. He knew it was just a matter of time. He ran for the back, checking the window on the back door and seeing the other SUV parked directly outside the door. He cursed and moved to the sofa, pulling it across the room and standing it on end to lean against the back door.

Then he moved back to the front and looked out again. He could see someone on a phone in the front passenger seat, probably getting confirmation that they were in the right spot. Phil didn't know how they'd found him. He didn't know if Clint was okay – didn't know if he was running for his life, captured, or lying bleeding to death in the street. He didn't know any of the answers to any of his questions. But he did know one thing.

He was surrounded.

* * *

Clint cursed as his foot slid for the hundredth time across the slick tiles of the rooftops he had been sprinting across for the last three minutes. His heart was pounding and his breaths were coming in and going out in sharp bursts. The strain of keeping his balance and footing on such slick terrain was taxing and it was exhausting him in a way he wasn't used to. He didn't stop though, didn't pause to catch his breath. He'd caught site of two black SUVs six blocks ahead of him, turning onto their street.

So he kept going, knowing that being too late was an outcome he would  _not_  accept.

* * *

Phil slammed the lid to the burn bin closed and pressed the button to set fire to the materials inside. Then he sprinted to the bunkroom, pushed aside the rug and shoved their go-bags, Clint's rifle and everything else in the room into the hidden compartment on the floor. Then he replaced the rug and went back to the front window, cursing as he saw men piling out of the SUV.

He moved around the room in a controlled frenzy, gathering the rest of their things. He shoved the laptop into his backpack, opened the hidden wall and shoved an assortment of weapons in with the laptop. The last things to go into the bag were the archaic walkie talkies that Clint had refused to use. He closed the wall again, and went back to the window, his mind racing as he watched the men cross the street. He heard something batter against the back door.

When he was sure they were all focused on the front door, he moved for the window in the kitchen, sliding it up silently. He was out of the safe house moments later and shifting up the alley. He peeked around the corner, drawing back when he saw one of the men had shifted to scan the surrounding area. Phil knew if he moved, he'd be seen. He pulled back, mouthing a curse.

He pulled his side arm and ran through possible scenarios in his head. He knew it wouldn't be long before they came looking to see if there were any more entry or exit points. That meant he didn't have much time to get out of here. He peeked around the edge again, only to draw back when he saw the lookout focus on him. He ducked further back when gunfire tore into the side of the house.

There was a sudden burst of static across the comm line and before Coulson could begin to process what that might mean, he heard a yell of pain. He risked another look around the corner and his eyebrows rose in shock. The lookout was on the ground an arrow between his shoulder blades. Coulson blinked and another of the men was down, an arrow in his neck. He tracked he trajectory and saw him.

A black clad figure standing on the edge of a roof across the street.

"Damn it, Clint! Change position or they'll see you!"

It was when the remaining six men turned and started searching for Clint's location, that Coulson realized that was exactly what Clint had intended. It took every fiber of his self control to resist shouting out to draw their attention back to him when they saw Clint and opened fire. He knew that would defeat the whole purpose of the distraction. He heard the back door in the safe house burst open and shouts as men tore through the small space. He had to make his move before they got out to the front.

He watched Clint down another man and then retreat backwards. Just as Phil expected, and as he knew Clint expected, the men pursued, sprinting to the fire escape on the side of that building and rushing up the short two flights.

Coulson broke from his cover and sprinted away down the street, cutting down the first side street he came across and weaving back towards the heart of the city. He resisted the urge to move towards where he knew Clint would be. Clint could take care of himself. Instead, he settled for trying once again to raise Clint on the comms. He knew it was probably not going to work. They'd been getting nothing but static for the last several minutes.

"Hawkeye!"

There was nothing for several moments and then a short burst of static that started with the letter 'c'. Coulson sighed and continued his trek towards the city. He wasn't sure how it happened, how they found him – how one second he could be pinned down and under fire and the next be granted a safe exit because Clint was dropping men with his arrows and _purposefully_  drawing their fire.

Now they were separated.

On the run.

And without a way to communicate.

_Perfect._

They were both alive though, for now, and uncaptured, for now.

Phil supposed they were already better off than they usually were when things went to hell.

* * *

Clint backed away from the roof edge, knowing the men would pursue him and give Phil the moment he needed to escape safely from the alley next to the safe house. He heard the men clambering up the fire escape and it spurred him to move faster in preparation for his next jump.

His feet left the ledge just as he heard them shout that they saw him. He knew they'd be opening fire on his back any moment and swore he could hear the bullet whistle over his head as he dropped. He had never intended to jump to the next rooftop. He knew the chase would carry on longer and he'd run more of a risk of getting shot if he stayed on their level.

As he crashed through the window on the second story of the next building, he really questioned if this path was really that much better. He hit the floor inside the building with his shoulder first and rolled through the shattered glass several times before coming to a stop on his stomach.

"Ow."

He heard Coulson attempt to say something over their comm line and groaned.

"Can't really talk right now," he muttered in reply.

He forced his arms under his body and wondered absently if his hands were bleeding from fresh cuts or from the old cuts he'd gotten back on the rooftop of Andrić's building. His face stung where the glass had bit into it during his entry. He heard useless gunfire peppering the broken window and pushed himself to his feet even as he moved away. He pulled out his earpiece and crushed it under his boot. It wasn't like it was doing him any good anyway.

Knowing that he couldn't be tracked by them anymore, the next step would be to find Phil. Of course, finding Phil in Croatia's largest city when the man was trying to stay under the radar was going to be difficult. Phil Coulson was one of SHIELD's premiere agents. If he didn't want to be found, it was going to be nearly impossible to find him.

Clint had always excelled at finding people, though,  _especially_  when they didn't want to be found.

* * *

Phil sighed deeply, crossing his arms over his chest and remaining silently thankful for the overhanging roof he was sheltered under in an alley a few blocks from the train station. He was still cold, though, and soaked through from the driving rain. His backpack rested heavily against his shoulders and he shifted in the shadows as he watched some locals exit the apartment building across the street and head away from him up the street.

He narrowed his eyes suddenly and glanced at his watch..

"It took you three hours to find me, I was sure you'd do it in less than two."

Phil turned to see Clint standing behind him. The archer smirked wearily.

"The rain's been a bitch."

* * *

End of Chapter 4

WHEW! That had some intense moments :) They're reunited for now, but the story isn't over by any means.

Here's your preview

* * *

**" _Be careful."_**

_Clint pulled his own walkie from his belt._

_"I'm beginning to think that phrase jinxes me."_

_He watched Phil smile._

**" _Since when have you needed a jinx to get into trouble?"_**


	5. Could I Take The Bullet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Kylen is just awesome...as a beta, as a friend, as a fellow author...just awesomeness in its truest form.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Enjoy!

_If by my life or death I can protect you, I will._

**_J.R.R. Tolkien_ **

* * *

"Have you stayed on the move?" Clint asked, pulling Phil farther back into the shadows.

"Until a few minutes ago I hadn't stopped," Phil replied, watching Clint shift so he had a clear line of fire on the mouth of the alley.

"They're tracking the comms, that's how they found you," Clint explained quickly, his hand twitching towards the bow stored at the small of his back as a car drove by. Coulson already had his comm out of his ear before Clint was halfway through the statement. He crushed it with his boot immediately.

"We need to move," Phil urged Clint towards the mouth of the alley.

"How long have you been here?" Clint demanded, his hand going towards his bow once again.

As if on cue, a black SUV screeched to a stop in front of the alley, blocking their exit.

"Too long," Coulson admitted needlessly.

Clint was already snapping his bow out into full form.

"Save your arrows, Clint, the quieter we do this the better." The last thing Phil wanted to deal with was local police.

"Arrows are quiet," Clint grumbled petulantly, though he folded his bow again and stored it away. "Like Bangkok?"

"Think that'll work?"

"Worked then." Clint shrugged one shoulder, raising his hands submissively. "Should work now."

"Unless they decide to shoot first and skip the whole question thing," Phil pointed out sardonically.

"Let's hope they  _don't_  do that."

Phil's sideways glare clearly stated 'No shit'.

Half a dozen men climbed out of the SUV, none of them without at least a side arm pulled. Phil let out a relieved breath when none of them immediately opened fire.

"That's a good sign." Clint's voice was pitched low and his mouth barely moved.

Phil nodded almost imperceptibly in agreement.

"I'll take the three on the left?" Clint offered with a slight grin as the men drew cautiously closer.

Phil didn't have a chance to respond because one of the men spoke.

"Put your hands behind your head."

Clint immediately obeyed, interlocking his fingers and letting his game face slid into place. Phil mirrored him, his own expression blank and hard. The men came to stand a few feet in front of them.

"Restrain them," the apparent leader ordered.

Clint waited until fingers were brushing against his wrist before he moved. He sensed Phil acting in nearly the same breath. Clint twisted, driving his elbow into jaw of the man who was attempting to restrain him. As the man stumbled back, Clint pivoted in place and then twisted his body into the air, dropping the man with the steel toe of his combat boot. He crouched immediately as he gathered his balance after the kick, feeling the shift of the air as an arm passed through the area his head had just occupied. Clint struck out at the exposed abdomen in front of him. An open palm to the short ribs resulted in a satisfying crack and a shout of pain. Clint snapped a sharp kick into the man's thigh, even as he dodged to the left to avoid a strike from a third man. He hooked his arm over the fist flying past his face, locked his hand around the man's elbow and yanked him forward even as he snapped a second kick into the other man's temple.

An open palm to the back of the elbow he had trapped bent the join inwards and elicited another shout of pain. He swung the same hand into a closed backhand to finally put the first man down. Then Clint pulled the final man towards him, wrapped a hand around his chin and the other around the crown of his head. Then he twisted.

Phil saw Clint's muscles tense a second before he moved. Phil reacted in nearly the same moment. He unlaced his fingers, reaching to lock his hand around the wrist that had been reaching for him. He spun, bracing the back of the man's elbow against the nape of his neck. Then he pulled the wrist forward sharply. The crack as the elbow snapped was mostly muffled by the bark of pain. Phil released the wrist and wrapped a hand around the man's chin as he doubled. He twisted up and to the right hard and the neck snapped.

Phil was already moving at the next guy as the body fell. He blocked an approaching right hook and countered it with a sharp jab to the man's nose that brought forth a spray of blood. He pursued the man as he stumbled back a step and finished him with a second jab into his broken nose that dropped him like a rock. The final man was raising his gun as Phil moved towards him. He fanned his leg into a kick that knocked the weapon away and then hit the man with a sharp left hook. He barely faltered and Phil was forced to dodge a jab aimed at his nose.

He twisted as the fist passed his face and latched onto the arm. He yanked the man forward even as he brought his knee up hard into his chest, kneed him a second time for good measure and then used his other foot to kick the man's legs out from under him. He followed him to the ground and chopped the side of his hand against the man's throat.

Phil rose and looked immediately to Clint, who was pushing away the falling body of his final adversary. With a silent look of communication, they moved together towards the mouth of the alley and turned left onto the street, making their way quickly, but casually away from the idling SUV. Phil briefly contemplated taking the large vehicle for themselves, but didn't want to run the risk of it being traceable. So instead they continued on foot, getting as far away from their former location as possible.

"So they tracked the frequency?" Phil asked as they finally got far enough away that he didn't feel like fresh bad guys were going to pop up around the corner.

"Yeah, this new player is a paranoid son of a bitch. They locked onto my frequency and traced it back to you."

Phil paused suddenly, pulling Clint to a stop next to him and looking over his agent with a critical eye. If they'd traced Phil's location, then they'd traced Clint's. Clint had been  _in_ the house. His eyes zeroed in on the bloody rag around his hand and the dark stain on his hip. Then he noticed the way Clint wasn't putting any real weight on his right leg and in the minimal light of the street lamp he could see shallow cuts on his face.

"I'm fine." Clint forestalled any suggestion to the contrary. "Just bumps and bruises."

"List 'em." It wasn't a request;  _that_  was clear by the tone.

"Cut my hand on broken roof tiles. Got creased on the hip. Bad landing on my knee. Hit a fire escape and bruised a few ribs. And went through a window." Clint's tone was crisp and clinical, detached almost, as he listed his misadventures over the past several hours.

Phil's eyebrow arched critically.

"That doesn't  _sound_  like just bumps and bruises."

Clint's chin lifted a little in defiance, a sight Coulson was fondly used to.

"Nothing worth immediate attention," he insisted.

Phil nodded slowly.

"We need to find a place to hole up for a few hours, get some shut eye before dawn," the handler suggested. His motives for finding a place to sleep were threefold. Clint looked exhausted.  _He_  was exhausted. And holding up for a few hours would give him an excuse to determine just how bad Clint's self-diagnosed 'bumps and bruises' were. Because if there was one thing he'd learned about Clint in the last two years and eight months, it was that he notoriously  _under_ diagnosed his own injuries.

"There was that building under construction just a few blocks from here," Clint offered, not opposed to catching a few hours of sleep.

Phil nodded.

"We'll go there. I might even be convinced to go on a pastry run since that little place is right around the corner."

"What'll it take to convince you?" Clint asked as they continued walking.

"You let me get a look at that hand and see what your definition of a 'crease' is."

Clint shrugged.

"Yeah, okay."

As they continued their journey towards the impromptu resting place, Phil began to wonder at the easy capitulation. He realized, as Clint told him exactly what he wanted from the bakery, that he'd been played. He'd been full-on Hawkeyed.

* * *

"I need to stitch this up," Phil frowned down at Clint's hand.

Clint chewed absently on his fresh fruit pastry and peered down at his palm skeptically.

"Really?"

"You realize you laid open your palm from the base of your pinky to the base of your thumb, right?" Phil gave him a slight glare and reached for his backpack and dug out the first-aid kit he always kept in it. A few moments later he was cleaning the cut and preparing to suture it closed.

Clint continued eating his pastry, seemingly unconcerned by the ministrations. He didn't flinch when Phil started the stitches and had remained equally unaffected as Phil tied them off.

"You can't get mad if I rip these. I hold my bow in this hand, so I can pretty much guarantee they're gonna take some abuse."

Phil didn't bother responding to that obvious statement as he smoothed antibiotic over the cut and then started wrapping gauze around it. If Clint managed to  _keep_  a set of stitches for their prescribed length of time,  _then_ he'd be surprised. Hand dealt with, Phil decided to handle the minor cuts on the left side of Clint's face. He cleaned quickly, Clint still mostly ignoring him in favor of pastry.

"Stop chewing."

Clint did so immediately and without complaint as Phil pulled together the deepest of the cuts with a butterfly bandage. Clint started chewing again as soon as Phil pulled away. Phil carefully helped him unstrap his bulletproof vest and pull it off.

"Any ribs broken?"

"Just bruised, I swear."

Phil nodded in trusting acceptance.

"Let's get that hip taken care of and then I'll have a look at your knee."

Without hesitation, Clint stood from the stool he was sitting on, unhooked his belt, and dropped his pants. Then he pulled down the edge of his boxers to expose the messy, bloody crevice the bullet had carved in his hip.

"See," Clint shrugged, taking another bite of his pastry, "not that bad."

Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He and Clint had always had differing definitions for many things. Not that bad. Fun. Following protocol. What a serious injury entailed. Whether 'go read this mission file' meant 'go read this mission file' or 'if you happen to have a chance to glance at the title of this mission file, give it a look, but don't go out of your way'. The definition of 'light activity' when on medical leave.

Clint did twitch a little as Phil cleaned the bullet crease, but didn't otherwise didn't show any indication of pain or discomfort. Coulson carefully covered the wound in antibiotic and then taped a gauze pad over it.

"The knee?" Phil urged as Clint eased the band of his boxers over the bandage. Clint sat back on his stool and allowed Phil to pull off his right boot. He eased the right pants leg off next and winced at the sight of the black, purple, and blue painted across the outside and front of Clint's knee.

"It's just a bruise."

Coulson nodded. Clint would know if it was worse. He tested the range of motion anyway and was pleased when Clint could manipulate the joint under his own power.

"Can you walk on it?" Phil asked, easing the sopping wet cargos the rest of the way off and moving to hang them over a worktable used by the construction crews here during the day time. He shook out Clint's jacket next and hooked it on an upended two by four. He added his own jacket to another and wished he'd had the time to grab their sweatshirts and the space in his backpack to have kept them dry. He watched Clint shiver slightly under the long-sleeved black t-shirt he was wearing. A glance around found a large grey welding blanket tossed over in a corner.

Phil retrieved it quickly and brought it over to Clint.

"Let me get at your ribs, just for my own piece of mind and then you can get some sleep."

Clint was accustomed to Phil's propensity to worry, so he straightened and lifted the front of his shirt without complaint.

"Jesus, Clint, you give new meaning to the words 'just bruised'."

He shook his head as he took in the dark blotches spread across Clint's chest and left side.

"You know me, Phil." Clint's voice was weary as he offered a slight grin. "I don't do anything halfway."

Clint didn't protest as Phil checked the ribs for any breaks. Satisfied, Phil finally sat back with a sigh.

"Get some sleep. I'll wake you in a few hours."

Clint nodded and wrapped the welding blanket around his body, going to the ground right there and curling onto his side with his head pillowed on Phil's backpack. Phil moved over to the window at the front of the room. The glass hadn't been put in yet so the air grew cooler the closer he got.

He looked out into the night, scanning the streets for any signs of their pursuers. He shivered, his own black cargos still sopping wet. Satisfied the dark road outside was clear of pursuers for now, Phil stripped out of his own cargos and moved to hang them near Clint's.

The last thing they needed was for either of them to catch something.

Shivering from the cool air on his bare legs, Phil searched the room again, hoping for another blanket – welding or otherwise. He sighed when all he saw was a paint-stained tarp. It would have to do. Finding a blanket for Clint had been more than he'd really hoped for. Even under it, he could see Clint shiver every now and then.

Phil had been lucky enough to have stayed dry and warm up until the mad dash away from the safe house. Even then, he'd taken shelter under overhangs or canopies from time to time, just to have a break from the driving rain.

Clint hadn't been as lucky. Stuck in the downpour from nearly start to finish, anything not protected by his waterproof jacket had been soaked to the bone. Phil would give anything for a dryer right now. He settled for knowing Clint was currently buried under a welding blanket and sleeping. He was dry- _ish_. They were both safe.

Phil would take it for now.

* * *

"You know this is illegal, right?" Clint teased as he watched Coulson work to hack into an internet café's hardline connection.

"It's more like a grey area." Phil typed a command into his keyboard and smiled in victory. "I can't very well pull up SHIELD's network on one of their computers can I?"

"Of course not. I'm just going on record saying that I'm not the one breaking the law this time."

"Noted." Phil typed in his access code and then navigated to the Priority Two list.

"This the list?" Clint asked, taking the laptop when Phil handed it to him.

"You're sure the guy is a priority two?"

"Yeah." Clint scrolled down, scanning the faces quickly. "Him. That's him."

Phil looked over his shoulder and then nodded.

"Gabriel McGuire."

Clint clicked the man's name, opening the file on him. He was prompted for an access code, tried his own but was denied. He immediately typed Phil's and the file opened. He cleared his throat under the weight of the heavy glare leveled at his head.

"How long have you known my access code?"

"Since Barcelona."

"Two years?" Phil really wished he was surprised, but strangely…he wasn't. At all.

Clint shrugged.

"SHIELD's got a lot of shit the Council thinks is above my pay grade. If they'd up my clearance, I wouldn't have to use your access code to get information."

Phil shook his head, reading the file over Clint's shoulder.

"His status is inactive."

"Targets go inactive if they can't be located for an extended period of time." Phil offered the explanation absently as he scanned the file.

"Huh, so SHIELD subscribes to the 'out of sight, out of mind' philosophy?"

"It's more efficient. You've just never dealt with it because you only handle active files." Phil pulled the laptop from Clint's unresisting hands. "SHIELD resources have been unable to locate McGuire for the past seven years."

"And we happen to stumble onto him in the middle of a plot to reignite the hostility between Croatia and Serbia? What's McGuire do?"

"He creates chaos and profits from it. He's a middle man for weapons dealers, mercenary groups, and a lot of other less-than-savory individuals. He sparks situations that those types of individuals would want take part in and then profits off being the middle man. Only reason he's not on the Priority One list is that he's not  _actually_  a weapons dealer or running a mercenary group."

"Sounds like he's got himself a sweet set up."

Phil nodded.

"We need to find a phone. I'd bet a year's salary that our mission parameters are about to change."

* * *

Phil waited for his call to transfer to Fury as he watched Clint buy them food from across the street.

" _Fury."_

"We've got a situation."

" _What happened?"_

"We got a confirmed ID on Gabriel McGuire."

He heard Fury bark at someone to get out of his office and close the door.

" _Gabriel McGuire has been inactive for seven years."_

"Barton confirmed it."

" _He's behind the threat to the president, isn't he..."_ Fury surmised knowingly.

"Also confirmed. He's trying to start a new war and I guarantee he's going to let Josif Andrić take the fall. If he sets up an assassination and makes it look like the Serbs are behind it…" Phil trailed off with a shake of his head.

" _Consider your mission parameters officially changed_. _Take them both out before the president gets back tomorrow."_

"Yes, sir."

There was a pause.

" _Is there a reason you called me from a payphone?"_

Phil smirked a little. Fury's concern was mostly hidden under the dryly sarcastic question.

"Our safe house was compromised."

" _You and Barton good?"_

"Bumps and bruises."

" _Uh-huh."_ Fury knew just as well as Phil what 'bumps and bruises' meant with Clint.

"We can get it done."

" _I never had a doubt. Your flight out lifted off from Austria a few minutes ago. They'll be waiting at the airstrip for you when you're ready to bug out."_

"Sounds good. We'll pull together a plan and make our move in at dusk."

" _See you when you get back."_

Coulson hung up, watching Clint jog across the street, pause to shout at a reckless driver, and then continue towards him.

"If you wouldn't run out into the middle of the street, you wouldn't almost get hit."

Clint rolled his eyes and held out a bag.

"Who knew McDonalds was so far reaching."

* * *

"We can enter through the attic like I did last time. Clear the top floor and then take them like I did that crew in Nairobi." Clint's explanation rattled out into the chilly evening air, his breath sending out puffs of condensation.

"Clint, you had smoke grenades, a protected perch and they had half as many men."

"Well I didn't say it was the perfect plan."

"It's a terrible plan."

"You have a better one?"

Phil frowned.

"Fine, but we stick to each other's backs."

"Phil, not my first hostile takedown. I've got your back, man. Always."

"I know, kid."

Of all the things about this upcoming firefight that he was worried about, whether or not Clint had his back was not one of them.

It never would be.

"So you jumped from here to there last night  _in the rain_?" Phil asked doubtfully as he crouched on the rooftop next to Clint.

"Yeah…you wanted to know when I cut my hand," Clint nodded at the opposite roof. "That was it."

Phil frowned thoughtfully.

"You're not going to make that jump. You see that balcony?" Clint pointed at a small balcony on the second floor with a set of French doors leading inside. "That's where you'll jump."

"Are you kidding me?"

"It's a shorter distance and gravity will do most of the work."

"You do realize that I'm not  _you_ , right."

"Well if you'd rather just wait here…"

Phil held up a hand to stop him.

"Just go."

Clint smirked and pushed to his feet. He shrugged out of his quiver and then pulled his jacket off, handing it to Phil, who arched a curious eyebrow. It was cold outside – and getting colder.

"I don't want it restricting my shoulders." Clint answered the unasked question as he pulled his quiver back on. Phil didn't argue, but did stand and reach to adjust one of the shoulder straps on Clint's bulletproof vest, pulled loose while Clint had been pulling his quiver back on.

Clint nodded in thanks and Coulson moved farther up the roof so he'd be out of the way. Clint eyed the distance and then moved back, struck with an eerie sense of déjà vu.

"Well, at least it's not raining this time." The words were muttered under his breath, not really meant for anybody but him. He saw Phil smirk out of the corner of his eye.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." Clint replied firmly. He rolled his neck, absently adjusted his quiver, and then blew out a deep breath.

He had a moment to reflect as he was flying through the air, that it had been easier the second time. He still rolled when he hit the opposite roof, but it was much easier to stop his downward slide when the roof wasn't slick with fresh rain. He stood and waved to Phil that he was okay. He watched Phil raise one of their walkie-talkies to his mouth.

" _Be careful."_

Clint pulled his own walkie from his belt.

"I'm beginning to think that phrase jinxes me."

He watched Phil smile.

" _Since when have you needed a jinx to get into trouble?"_

"I'll give you that." Clint laughed. "See you in a few." He clipped the walkie back onto his belt, turned the volume all the way down, and moved towards the skylight. The lock hadn't been fixed, apparently they didn't expect him to make a return visit. That was just fine by him. He opened the window carefully and peered into the dark attic. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the unlit room. But a few moment later, he was able to confirm the attic was empty.

Without hesitation, he flipped through the window and into the room.

* * *

Phil watched Clint's legs disappear through the window and waited, with less patience than he cared to admit. He counted, imagining Clint moving through the second floor of the house, visualizing the floor plan Clint had described to him. He perked up when the French doors on the balcony suddenly swung inwards.

Clint gave him a little wave and motioned him to jump.

Phil moved to the edge of the roof and hesitated. Apparently, he took too long because suddenly Clint pulled his walkie-talkie off his belt.

" _Move your ass."_

Phil glared across the expanse and raised his own walkie.

"I'm gauging the distance."

" _You're stalling."_

"I'm prepping."

" _Make the jump or I'm leaving your ass there."_

"Fine."

Phil stalked away from the edge. He was an athletic man. He could do a lot of things. But jumping from a rooftop to a balcony on an opposing building wasn't exactly in his skill set. He didn't move by rooftop on a regular basis like his agent did.

" _Phil?"_

"What?" He instantly regretted the growl in his tone.

" _I won't let you fall."_

Phil sighed. Since when was Clint the one doing the assuring?

"I know, kid." He clipped his walkie to his belt and blew out a deep breath. Clint wouldn't let him fall. He ran for the edge. He pushed off with his left foot and offered up a prayer. As it turned out, he handled the jump far better than he'd expected. He even aimed his launch well enough that he was headed right for the balcony. Clint reached out, catching his arm as he neared and steadying his landing.

Phil took a moment, hand tight around Clint's arm, and breathed away the adrenaline rush. He knew now why Clint loved that so much. His agent was an adrenaline junkie.

"All good?" Clint asked.

"Let's do this."

Phil led the way back into the house and Clint silently pulled the doors closed again. Phil used hand signals to indicate they'd clear the room across the hall first. Clint nodded, and pulled his bow from where it was stored at the small of his back. He snapped it out to full form as Phil twisted a suppressor onto his side arm. Clint nocked an arrow and Phil put his hand on the door knob. Clint pulled back on his bowstring and nodded once.

Phil twisted the knob and pushed the door inward. Clint led the way into the room, scanning the immediate area. Finding it clear, he turned his attention to the open door to his left. He felt Phil covering his back as he moved and when he confirmed the bathroom was clear, he nodded over his shoulder. He turned then and followed Phil back towards the door.

Clint grabbed Phil's arm, pulling him to a stop. He pointed at his own ear and then out the door. Then he mimed a man going up stairs with his fingers. Phil nodded. Clint put away his arrow, and stowed his bow, moving to stand next to the open door. Phil stood at his shoulder.

Clint cocked his head and listened and then abruptly snapped into motion. He dove out of the room, chopping his arm into the passing man's throat. As he gasped for air around his suddenly-crushed throat, Clint spun him until his back was pressed against Clint's chest. Then he put a hand on the crown of his head and one on his chin. He twisted, sharply, and then kept his hold, dragging the body back into the room. He lowered him silently to the ground and pulled his bow back out.

They moved quietly into the hallway and towards the staircase.

Clint paused when they got to the point where the open living space would become visible. He crouched and sighted down his arrow into the room. He frowned. He didn't see McGuire or Andrić. But there were about a dozen other men lounging around.

Clint eased back up the stair and let the bow string relax back to its natural position. He communicated what he'd seen to Phil with hand signals. Phil nodded and told him to go.

Clint crouched again, moved down a stair, sighted with his bow and fired.

By the time the men below processed that one of them had just sprouted an arrow from his throat, another of their numbers had met the same fate. A third fell back a moment after the tell-tale sound of a suppressed gunshot broke the stunned silence of the room. By the time anybody got their weapons up, two more had fallen.

That was when all hell broke loose.

Clint led the way down the stairs, firing as he went. Phil was only a step behind, doing the same. He hit the ground floor about the same time the opposing force opened fire. Phil pushed him back and they took cover in the small dining room on the opposite side of the house, to the left of the stairs.

They shared a glance, nodded together, and then Phil spun down to his knees and around the corner, firing as soon as he had a target in sight. Clint stood over him, firing two arrows before having to duck back behind the wall.

"Only three more."

Clint nodded in response to Phil's statement.

"I'll get the two on the right," Clint decided. Phil dipped his head in acknowledgment and together they moved again. Clint stepped out farther this time, leaving himself fully open but giving him a clear line of fire to the man furthest back in the room. He fired and before the man fell, he'd taken aim at the man that stood two steps closer. Phil's target fell at the same time.

"We need eyes on the targets," Phil hissed.

They both dropped into a crouch and moved for cover when a sudden gunshot came from the small room at the back of the house, hidden behind a closed door.

"On me," Clint instructed, leading the way back. Phil moved ahead of him, putting a hand on the door knob. He met Clint's eyes and waited for him to nod before pushing the door open. Clint lead the way, eyes immediately taking in everything in the room, from the bleeding body on the ground to the open back door.

"Andrić is down," Clint swept the room with his eyes one more time. "Clear."

He lowered his bow and moved to Andrić. Blood was leaking slowly from the bullet that had torn into his heart. His eyes were closed and he wasn't breathing. Clint knew before he even checked that the man was dead. He looked around the room, absently noting Phil check the alley behind the house and pull the back door closed.

"McGuire is gone."

"Andrić's dead," Clint replied. He noticed an empty laptop case. "McGuire took a laptop and all the evidence that was probably on it."

Phil cursed under his breath and headed back into the main area of the house. Clint shifted through the mess of papers on the desk, frowning at the extensive notes on the president's travel plans and security team. He gathered the papers and followed Phil's path back into the main room.

Phil snatched a cell phone off one of the dead men and moved towards the front door, pulling it open a crack and scanning the street. Seeing it clear, he pulled the door open further, even as he started dialing.

"This is Phil Coulson, ID 2-3-5-9-8-7-Yankee-Tango. Confirm the line is secure."

He listened to the confirmation as Clint came up next to him.

"He can't have gotten far," Clint insisted, itching to take off in pursuit.

"Get me Fury."

" _Hold for transfer."_

Phil turned his attention away from the phone and back to Clint.

"We have no idea which direction he went."

"He might still be in the area. A guy like that would want to make sure no one was left to tie him to this plot." Clint held up the stack of papers detailing the planned hit on the president. "He's gotta be close, Phil. I can feel it."

Phil nodded in agreement, his gut telling him the same thing.

" _Fury."_

Phil held up a finger, silently telling Clint to just hold on for a second.

"Andrić is dead. McGuire killed him."

Clint listened to Phil update Fury and confirm that the threat the president was neutralized. He scanned the open street carefully, highly-trained eyes attuned to any nuance that was out of place. He saw the light as it shifted and cocked his head. A red beam of light, not unlike what he targeted with on his bow sometimes. He turned to tell Phil, already reaching to pull the man back.

There was a red dot on Phil's chest.

There was no thought process. No conscious decision. Clint just moved, reacting to the sight instinctively. He heard the sharp rapport of a single gunshot just as he shoved Phil back a step and stepped to the left.

His last thought as the bullet ripped into his left shoulder was a desperate hope that it didn't just go straight through him and hit Phil anyway.

* * *

End of Chapter 5

all those times Clint mentioned this mission - all the times we heard about him taking a bullet for Phil...here it is...ready for some emotional turmoil? because it's coming..

Here's your preview

* * *

_"Clint! Look at me!" he ordered sharply. Wide blue-grey eyes flew to his face. "I know it hurts, but I have to do it. Stop fighting me."_

_Clint rolled his head away a grimace contorting his features. When he looked back, he shifted his right hand to Phil's chest, patting the t-shirt._

_"You 'kay?"_

_Phil wanted to smack him._

_"You're the one that got shot, you idiot!"_


	6. Yes I Would, For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Kylen is just awesome...she co-wrote this chapter (and the next) and she helped take Dr. Dan from just a random OC into a real character - she created his back story and molded him into a real character while I was busy with other parts of the story.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Like the Bible tells us, when a man will lay down his life for a friend, well, then there ain't no greater love in the here world than that._

**_Bette Green_ **

* * *

Phil nodded at Fury's directive to pursue McGuire. He quirked an eyebrow when Clint cocked his head. A breath later Clint's hand was aborting a movement towards his arm and shoving him in the chest instead. He watched Clint step in front of him, distantly heard the sound of the gunshot, saw Clint's body jerk back a step and then go boneless.

"CLINT!"

The phone clattered to the floor.

He caught Clint against his chest as the agent fell, pulling him back into the house. His agent's eyes were closed and Coulson cursed when his attention was ripped away as another bullet tore into the wood of the open door. Phil raised his gun, visualizing in his mind where the shot had come from. He thought about the direction Clint had been looking, the angle his body had jerked. He peeked around the door frame to confirm.

He found Gabriel McGuire standing in an alley across the street, a semi automatic rifle with a laser sight up at his shoulder. Phil pulled back as a bullet bit into the door from next to his head. He spared a single breath to look at Clint, motionless on the ground with a dark stain spreading across the shoulder of his black shirt.

He forced himself to take a deep breath and then steeled himself. He dove out into the open door way, taking have a second to aim before firing three shots in quick succession. A fourth shot echoed across the street even as McGuire fell back in the alley and Phil felt the burn of the bullet as it creased his right bicep.

He ignored it, dropped his gun and scrambled to Clint's side, pressing down on the bleeding bullet wound.

"CLINT!" His barked order demanded attention, but Clint's eyelids didn't even twitch.

Phil pulled his hands away, carefully rolling his agent to try and find an exit wound. There was none. He laid him flat again and all but tore off his own jacket, pressing it against the wound with one hand and reaching for the phone – lying abandoned on the ground – with the other. He wouldn't know until hours later that he'd smeared blood across his face in his haste to get the device to his ear.

"Nick!"

" _What the_ _ **hell**_ _is going on?! I heard shots!"_

"Clint is down! I need an emergency medical evacuation!" he demanded sharply. He heard Fury bark an order at someone to find Dan Wilson.

" _I'll scramble the team at the airstrip, but they're at least ten minutes out."_

Phil shook his head, pressing down more firmly on the bullet wound as the jacket became saturated with blood. He tensed when Clint groaned.

"That's too long," he whispered, mostly to himself. "I need the location of the nearest hospital," he stated louder.

He heard clicking of a keyboard and Fury shouted at someone to get a hold of the team at the airstrip.

" _Two miles north-east. University Hospital Center."_

Phil mapped out the distance in his mind, visualizing the hospital. They'd seen it before while casing the city. There was a shuffling over the line and then suddenly a new voice came through the phone.

" _Fury's got a call in to the hospital, an ambulance is on the way. What's the situation?"_

Dr. Daniel Wilson's voice had never been so welcome.

"Bullet low to the left shoulder, front entry."

" _Exit wound?"_

"No."

" _Breathing?"_

Phil listened for a moment.

"Getting more labored."

" _Is the blood pulsing?"_

Phil shook his head. That had been one of the first things he'd checked.

"No."

" _The ambulance should be there any minute. Keep pressure on the wound and watch his breathing. How low_ _ **exactly**_ _is the wound on his shoulder."_

"Maybe an inch below the collar bone."

" _Jesus, he's lucky it didn't hit the top of his lung. Is he conscious?"_

"No."

As if just to spite him, Clint groaned again, shifting.

"Clint?"

Clint's eyes twitched open suddenly and he bucked against the pressure on his chest. His right hand flew to lock around Phil's wrist, trying to pull it back.

"Clint! Look at me!" he ordered sharply. Wide blue-grey eyes flew to his face. "I know it hurts, but I have to do it. Stop fighting me."

Clint rolled his head away a grimace contorting his features. When he looked back, he shifted his right hand to Phil's chest, patting the t-shirt.

"You 'kay?"

Phil wanted to smack him.

"You're the one that got shot, you idiot!"

Relief colored Clint's expression and he let his right hand drop. That was when it all clicked into place.

"What did you do, Clint?" Phil demanded. "You son of a bitch, did you take a bullet for me?"

Clint's face contorted in pain again and for a moment Phil forgot his sudden horror and anger.

"What is it?"

"I can't – I can't feel m' arm…" Clint slurred, his head tilting towards his left side. Phil's eyes widened and shifted to Clint's left arm, lying motionless on the floor, not so much as a finger twitching. He raised his eyes back up to Clint's face only to see his eyes closed again.

"Clint? CLINT!"

" _PHIL!"_

Coulson realized Dan had been yelling at him the whole time.

"He said he can't feel his arm."

He relayed the news blankly, refusing to acknowledge what it meant. Distantly, he heard sirens approaching.

_"Jesus...just keep the pressure on it and_ _**don't** _ _move him. I can hear the sirens, Phil, they're almost there, okay?"_

Phil nodded silently.

" _Phil."_  Fury was back.  _"The team will handle the scene. Stay with Barton. We're headed to you."_

Phil didn't know who 'we' were and couldn't bring himself to care. He didn't point out that staying with Clint was the  _only_  option, he hadn't even considered another one. He stared at Clint's lax face, the moment of the shot playing over and over in his head.

Clint had stepped to the left. Right before the shot, Clint had stepped to the left. He'd stepped  _in front_  of Phil. He'd stepped in front of a  _bullet_  that was meant for Phil. He'd done it _on purpose_.

Horror settled in and pain tore through his chest.

"You stupid son of a bitch…what did you  _do_?"

Of course Clint didn't answer. Didn't answer because he  _couldn't_. Because he was  _unconscious_  with a bullet in his shoulder. A bullet that shouldn't be in him at all. That should be in Phil instead.

His eyes went to Clint's bulletproof vest. It had been a fraction of an inch short of protecting him. A fourth of an inch lower and the bullet would've hit Kevlar instead of the black strap that held it in place. He was afraid to remove the vest, afraid to do anything that would disturb the wound. So he settled for holding his constant pressure and straining his ears to hear the sounds of the ambulance drawing closer.

He heard brakes squeal and then doors open and slam shut. He looked over his shoulder to see a man and a woman jogging towards him. Phil was immediately forced out of the way and questions came at him in a language he knew to be Croatian.

He shook his head. He didn't speak Croatian. Of all the times not to speak the language...

The woman glanced at her partner then back at Phil.

"How long ago was he shot?" she asked, her English was heavily accented but nearly perfect.

Her partner was carefully removing Clint's vest and pulling it away from his body.

"Five or six minutes."

Phil watched the man cut open Clint's shirt, exposing his bruised chest.

_Had that really only happened last night?_

"Has he regained consciousness?"

Phil nodded.

"He said he couldn't feel his left arm."

He watched them pause. The man said something rapidly in Croatian and the woman responded quickly but calmly. The man nodded and immediately started working to immobilize Clint's shoulder as his partner started assessing his vitals. She started pressing gauze against the entry wound, nodding to the door and speaking to her partner. He stood and jogged back out to the ambulance.

Coulson lost time as he watched her add to the gauze she was piling on Clint's shoulder.

Suddenly the man was back with a backboard and Phil saw a collapsible gurney at the door. He watched an IV go into place, watched them carefully roll Clint onto the board and then lift him to the gurney.

He hadn't realized he'd gotten up to follow until the woman was putting a hand to his chest. Phil barely stopped himself from snapping her wrist. Her dark eyes flicked to the bodies littering the house.

"The police are on the way."

Phil looked over his shoulder at the bodies, then back at her, his gaze hardening.

"I'm going with him."

This was the tone that demanded no arguments. The tone that Clint always argued with. This woman just blinked and frowned at him.

"Let me put it this way," Phil snapped. "If he wakes up and I'm not there, someone will get hurt."

She sighed deeply, looking a little pissed.

"Fine. But the police will want to talk to you."

Phil looked up the street to see a black jeep speeding towards them.

"No, they won't."

Phil followed her to the ambulance, sparing only a moment to stop and talk to the agents in the jeep through an open window.

"Bodies in the house and a body across the street in that alley."

"How's Barton?" the man he knew to be Jack Robbins asked. As far as he knew, Robbins and Clint had never met.

Phil just shook his head and turned away, climbing into the back of the ambulance. He watched the five-man team climb out of the jeep, Robbins turning to face the approaching police cars and their flashing lights and wailing sirens.

Phil turned back to watch the female medic work to stabilize Clint. He caught sight of her name tag, labeling her N. Kovačić.

"Thank you."  _For not making me leave him. For trying to save him._  He offered it quietly, sincerely and it drew her eyes to him briefly.

She nodded, returning her attention to Clint. Phil did the same, reaching to wrap his hand around Clint's wrist. He needed the connection. He needed to pass whatever strength he could to his charge.

_Fight, Clint. Always fight._

* * *

"He's at University Hospital Center in Zagreb." Dan shifted his phone as he strapped himself in on the jet. In the seat next to him Fury was doing the same. The jet was already taxiing out of the hangar. "How fast can you get there?" Dan waited, listening. "Low in the left shoulder, front entry, no exit. Loss of feeling in his arm." Dan nodded. "I'm nine hours away. I'll call ahead and let them know you're coming. Thank you, Lukas."

Dan snapped his phone shut and looked at Fury.

"I just called in a favor. Dr. Lukas Brunner."

"Stationed at the Vienna base." Fury nodded. He knew the name if not the man. SHIELD had surgeons scattered at the various bases across Europe, and Wilson had just called who Fury knew to be the organization's top orthopedic surgeon – which basically meant the top orthopedic surgeon they would be able find.

"He's on his way to Zagreb. I'm going to call the hospital and let them know he's coming so they hold off on any surgery until Brunner gets there."

Fury nodded.

"Can they afford to do that?"

Dan nodded.

"Hell, they'll probably keep him in pre-op that long anyhow to stabilize him." Dan opened his phone and started dialing again. "I would."

They'd done all they could. Now all they could do was hope it was enough.

* * *

Phil had been able to follow to a point, and then no amount of threatening, cajoling, or bribing would get him back to Clint's side. He'd paced anxiously in the emergency room waiting area for the next forty minutes. Then, to his surprise, none other than Dr. Lukas Brunner had burst through the doors, flashed credentials and walked straight through the doors that had been barred to Phil without a moment's hesitation.

Phil had blinked, knowing there was only one explanation for the sudden arrival of SHIELD's top orthopedic surgeon.

_He would have to thank Dan later._

That had been fifteen minutes ago. Now Phil was being led by a young dark-haired nurse to the waiting room for the surgery wing. She left him there, offered to get him something to drink. He refused.

He paced.

_One hour into surgery._

Phil refused half a dozen suggestions to get himself cleaned up. He also turned away four offers for coffee, and ignored three reminders that it had only been an hour and that it would be several more before there was any news.

_Three hours into surgery._

Phil stopped pacing and spent fifty minutes arguing with the nursing staff about why he didn't know anything more than he had three hours ago. He then spent forty more arguing with a doctor sent to try and calm him down.

_Five hours into surgery._

Phil was forced to stop yelling at the staff under the threat of security being called. Even though he could have handled a security team, he didn't want to create a scene if they tried to escort him out. Because there was no way he was leaving.

_Seven hours into surgery._

Phil found the waiting room chair with the most direct view of the double doors Clint lay somewhere behind and sat. He'd braced his elbows on his knees and threaded his fingers into his hair. He waited. He waited because it had become painfully obvious there was nothing else he could do.

But waiting meant thinking. It meant remembering what had happened. Remembering why Clint had been in surgery for seven hours. It meant acknowledging the terror echoing through him, the pain taking root in his gut.

It meant wondering what the hell Clint had been thinking.

He hated waiting.

* * *

It had been the longest nine hours of his life; of that, Nick Fury was certain.

Barton wasn't exactly his favorite person on the planet. In fact, the kid made it his personal mission to be a pain in his ass most of the time. He was sarcastic, insubordinate, and drove Fury up the wall. Fury barely even liked him.

But he  _did_  like him - cared about him even.

He cared about him because he was Clint Barton. He had become the best agent SHIELD had against all odds. He'd survived a childhood crafted by the devil himself and come out on top. Barton was everything a SHIELD agent should be – strong, brave, selfless, and deadly.

He was also the most important person in the world to one Phil Coulson, who Fury happened to like a whole hell of a lot. So Fury had sat stiff-jawed on the entire flight, hoping, _praying_  he wouldn't arrive to find a body in a morgue.

If it was long for him, Fury could only guess at what it had been like for Coulson. So when he pushed through the doors into the waiting room of the surgical wing with Dan Wilson hot on his heels, he really didn't know what he expected to see.

Phil arguing with nurses, perhaps.

Phil pacing.

Phil asking him what the hell had taken him so long – even though Fury wasn't absolutely certain Coulson had heard him when he'd announced that he and Wilson were coming.

Not Phil sitting in a chair, hands threaded into his hair, staring at the floor.

"Phil," Fury barked out.

As if it took a moment for the call to process, Phil raised his head only after a long beat.

"Phil, what the hell…" Fury breathed, taking in the completely disheveled state of his agent. The torn clothes, the lack of a jacket - despite the weather - and the still-wet fabric of his shirt covered with dirt and mud. That would have been bad enough.

But the  _blood_...

"They won't tell me anything." Phil's voice seemed blank, emotionless, and that more than anything else, hammered home the situation to both Fury and Wilson. Before Phil could say another word, Dan let out a string of curses under his breath, and then pulled Phil to his feet.

"It's waited nine hours, it can wait another 15 minutes." Dan's words weren't to Phil, but to Fury. He grabbed Coulson by the arm, and steered him down the hall, not bothering to wait for any reply from the director.

Dan Wilson hadn't been to Croatia in 10 years, not since a tour of duty with the U.S. Army that had trained him as a medic. He'd returned to the states and immediately applied to medical school, his service giving him an edge – not to mention the degree in biology that had the name "United States Military Academy, West Point" above it.

He'd studied emergency medicine, specialized in trauma surgery, and by the end of his residency, he'd found a number of appealing offers waiting for him. At the tail end of the list was a request for an interview with an irritating little man calling himself Agent Coulson, representing the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logisitics Division.

He'd almost turned him down without even a thought. Instead, he'd gone to the interview, gotten an offer – one he couldn't have turned down at that point even if he'd wanted to, which he didn't – and found a place he'd called home for the last nine years.

And the irritating little man he'd dubbed Agent Colonoscopy had turned into maybe the closest friend he had in an organization that didn't necessarily encourage friendship. The younger agent that Coulson had molded into SHIELD's best distance operative had become one as well.

Right now, though, Dan could barely see his friend through all the layers he was buried under – physical and emotional. So he flashed his badge and barked orders – in the rough, street-wise version of Croatian he'd mastered all those years ago, and to hell with sounding politically correct – out to two nurses he practically ran over.

That got him a handful of towels and two sets of surgical scrubs. Trying to sound a little nicer – he HAD heard somewhere that you could catch more flies with honey than vinegar – he made an inquiry about the surgical unit's locker room, and as soon as he had directions, dragged Phil behind him.

The entire time, his friend hadn't said a word.

Dan pushed the door open, and looked around the room, immediately sighting a door that he prayed led to a private bathroom. Three strides took him and Phil to that door, and Dan could have cried with relief when he saw the toilet, large sink and shower – and the lock on the door.

As he threw the lock, Phil finally looked up at him, blinking in confusion.

"What…?" Phil muttered. Dan hesitated for a second, then turned Phil around to look in the mirror.

Dan wasn't prepared to see Phil's hazel eyes go wide at the sight of blood – in his hair, smeared liberally across his face, staining his shirt in several places, coating his hands – all in various shades of red and brown. He could only watch as Phil heaved in a deep breath, swallowed, and then spun on his heel and collapsed in front of the toilet, losing the meager contents of his stomach and then continuing to dry heave for long minutes afterward.

Finally, the spasms came to an end, and Phil leaned back against the wall, still breathing heavily.

"Shit." Coulson didn't tend to mince words, and neither did Dan – or waste actions for that part. He offered the agent a hand and when he accepted it, he pulled Phil to his feet. As soon as he was face to face with the man, he made sure Coulson's full attention was on him, then spoke.

"Clint is where he needs to be. Let that be enough for now." Dan's instruction was pitched low and firm. "And Brunner is the best orthopedic surgeon I know in eastern Europe. If he wasn't, I would've found someone better. You know that."

Phil closed his eyes, drew in a calming breath, and nodded. Dan wasn't done, though.

"You need to pull it together, and you know it." He held up the towels, and then the scrubs. "Get out of those clothes and get in the shower. Scrub, thoroughly. Then rinse. You get the blood off, then get these scrubs on, OK?"

Phil nodded, moved toward the shower, then hesitated when Dan didn't immediately leave. Forcing out a low chuckle, Dan shook his head and placed the towels and the scrubs on the bench next to the shower.

"I'll be outside." He turned and went out the door, shutting it behind him. As soon as he heard the water start running, he started shucking his own travel-worn sweats, and eyed up the second pair of scrubs.

He just hoped they fit. He had a patient to check on in the next half hour or so.

* * *

Fury glanced at Phil, who was staring at the doors Dan had disappeared through about ten minutes ago, promising to return soon with whatever news he could. The director sighed deeply, shifting forward in the chair he'd claimed to match Coulson's hunched forward posture.

"What the hell happened out there, Phil?"

"You know what happened." Phil thought he might have channeled Clint because there was no way he spoke to Fury in such a clipped tone under his own power.

"I know what you told me on the phone. McGuire killed Andrić and got away."

"McGuire circled around to the front." Phil shook his head. "Clint must have seen him." He said the last part almost to himself, frowning as he rehashed what had happened over and over in his head.

Fury waited, watching Phil rub at his hands – watching him rub at blood that wasn't there anymore, watching and waiting for an explanation of why this had rattled the man so badly.

"Maybe we should take a walk. Get some coffee or something." Fury only suggested it because it didn't seem like Phil was going to keep talking.

"I can't leave."

"Phil…" Fury started.

"I'm  _not_  leaving again until I know if he's okay."

Fury nodded, holding up his hands in surrender. He took a breath, scrubbed his hand over his face and then spoke again.

"Phil, this isn't the first time the kid's caught a bullet and I'm sure it won't be the last. The boy is practically a magnet for the damn things, but he's always pulled through in the end."

The words were meant as a comfort. A reminder that Clint Barton was as strong as they came. He was a fighter right down to his core. He was confused when Phil shook his head.

"It's not that, Nick. It's not that I don't think he's strong enough to make it."

"Then what?"

"It should be me in there."

The revelation knocked Fury back a mental step.

"Are you saying he…"

"He stepped in front of a bullet meant for me." Phil finished Fury's statement for him. The tone of his voice telling Fury everything he needed to know about how Phil was dealing with the situation.

Fury didn't know what to say. What  _could_  he say? He couldn't change the situation - he couldn't wave his hand and have Barton be all right - and right now, that was the only thing that could have made any of this better. He was saved from having to come up with a response when the double doors swung open and Dan came striding back through.

Phil was halfway to his feet before Fury had even fully processed that the doctor was back. He sat back down heavily when Dan put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a light push.

"Dan, what did they –" The medic held up a hand and stopped Phil before either he or Fury could ask questions.

"Just let me sit down and process this a second, OK?" Dan practically fell into a plastic chair across from where the two were sitting, leaned back and took a deep breath. He smiled, though, which gave Phil hope that he had good news.

"Okay, the kid's alive, and it looks like he'll stay that way." Dan heaved a sigh, then continued. "They had him in pre-op for about an hour and a half – per my instructions, I might add, so Brunner could get here AND they could stabilize him – and then took him into surgery as soon as Brunner had scrubbed.

"They managed to control the bleeding in that hour and a half, run an MRI to assess the damage, and run a pint of blood, plus started him on antibiotics. And they found the bullet and got it out, no problem, and patched up the artery it nicked." Dan gave Phil a nod, and an approving smile. "You did everything right in the field, Phil, and they did everything right here."

Phil nodded, ran his hands through his now-clean hair – then pinned Dan with a look.

"But?"

"There's always a but, isn't there." Dan swallowed once, then continued. "OK, the bullet was just a .22, but it did a lot of damage on the way in. I don't know if it was the trajectory or just plain bad luck, but it managed to catch just about every possible surface, ligament and supporting structure before it bounced back from the shoulder blade and came to rest right in the brachial plexus. That's all the nerves that control the arm, Phil."

Phil heard Fury draw in a harsh breath, but couldn't bring himself to do the same. It felt like he had a vacuum in his lungs as Dan continued, his voice calm, gentle – and utterly heartless.

"They're reconstructing the damage right now, and they're going to repair everything they can. Brunner's confident the nerves the bullet hit can be repaired, and that they will heal – in time." Dan leaned back, and looked straight at Phil before continuing. "But how well he recovers depends on scar tissue, rehab – all those little things that are going to take time.

"Even with the surgery, he might have permanent disability in that arm." Dan sniffed, then ran his hand under his nose. Whether Phil actually saw some tears in his eyes, he'd never be sure. But he suspected as much when Dan let out his last sentence at a considerably lower volume than before.

"And yes, I know that's the arm he draws with."

* * *

End of Chapter 6

How much of an emotional punch did that just pack? And Clint was in surgery for all of it! But wait...there's more...

Here's your preview

* * *

_Phil took a breath, released it, and just took in the sight. Clint was beaten and bruised, but alive – he was down, again, but he wasn't out. Phil reached forward and took Clint's right hand in his own and gave a slight squeeze._

_"It's okay, kid, I'm here now."_

_As if he'd been waiting for that assurance from the beginning, Clint's hand tightened around his and his blue grey eyes twitched open._


	7. You Don't Think About Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Kylen is co-wrote this chapter as well :) Those of you that liked getting to know Dan a little better - you are going to like this chapter. We are going to get to learn where he came from and a little about how he came to SHIELD.
> 
> Fair warning - the remainder of this story will be focusing heavily on the human/ emotional element of the brotherhood between Phil and Clint. There won't be any more gun play or heavy action sequences. Just wanted to lay that out there :)
> 
> Enjoy!

_There comes a time when the world gets quiet and the only thing left is your own heart. So you'd better learn the sound of it. Otherwise you'll never understand what it's saying._

_**Sarah Dessen** _

* * *

The two hours since Dan had come out with news on Clint had slowed to a crawl, and the three men in the surgical waiting area were a study of impatience in action.

Phil Coulson watched both Dan Wilson and Nick Fury, wondering vaguely if routines were just part of how everyone in SHIELD coped. Phil … he sat in the chair, but not comfortably. He shifted, found himself an angle where his body didn't ache, sat there for a few seconds, and then, as quickly as he had been comfortable, he just wasn't. His right arm would twinge and sting, or he'd go to run his fingers through his hair and they weren't getting stuck. He would remember the blood that had been on them – Clint's blood – and have to remind himself that they were now clean.

 _No, they're not clean. Haven't been for a long time._ And then he would move again, try to get comfortable, fail. Perpetual motion defined.

Dan paced. Phil had once wondered how Dan managed to be a doctor, specifically a surgeon. He couldn't sit still, seemed to have no patience – lost his cool sometimes at the drop of a hat. He'd recruited him knowing all this, because his superiors in the Army and his professors in medical school swore they'd never seen anyone with better focus or skills when the chips were down.

When they weren't … Dan moved. Right now, he kept pacing from the window over to the pneumatic doors that marked the entry into the surgical area. He'd stop at the window, look out at the snow in the pre-dawn light for about 10 seconds, sigh loudly, and walk over to the doors, check his watch, sigh again – and then repeat the process.

It looked like it was killing him to be stuck out here. Phil could appreciate the sentiment.

Fury, meanwhile, had been sitting with his feet kicked up on a coffee table, head laid back on the chair, staring at the ceiling with his one good eye. Coulson knew the man had the ability to be patient – hell, he'd watched Fury manage the council in the middle of a crisis. That didn't mean the director did it gracefully. He would roll his shoulders, pop a vertebrae in his back, drum his fingers in a deliberate, exaggerated motion, all while exercising a measure of control that had made him both famous and feared at SHIELD.

Then his phone had rung. Fury had flipped the phone open and answered it before the second ring, had swiftly barked out a request for a report, and had been listening since. Phil gathered the team in the field had called in with details, finally, but right now, he really didn't care.

The only report he wanted was on Clint.

Phil had just leaned forward to rest his forehead in his hands when the pneumatic doors opened with a swish and a clatter, and a doctor in surgical scrubs walked through.

 _Brunner._  Phil could see several emotions warring on his face as the man looked around the room, taking in the scene. Tension. Weariness. Compassion.

And just the smallest hint of pride.

He waited until all three men were in front of him, though, to speak.

"We are moving Agent Barton to PACU, where he will remain until he comes out from under the anesthesia," explained Brunner, his voice crisp with just the slightest hint of Slavik accent. He heaved in a small breath, let it out slowly, and then let a small smile creep across his features, knowing that everyone in the room had been waiting too long for the next words.

"Everything went as smoothly as I could have wanted. The damage was extensive, but we managed to maneuver all the pieces back into place. Everything that can be done, is done. Now we wait."

A flood of relief rushed through Phil so strongly that, for a moment, he swayed on his feet. He tried to remember how long it had been since he'd eaten, or gotten any real sleep, or even had a cup of coffee - but couldn't.

None of that mattered right now, though.

"When can we see him?" Phil's question was quick and to the point, and when Brunner looked at the clock on the wall with a thoughtful expression on his face, he suddenly had hope he would actually get a chance to go back to recovery and sit with his agent.

But Brunner's eyes quickly returned to Coulson, and Phil had the sense of being evaluated in that look. Why, he had no idea, but he could see questions forming in the Eastern European's eyes, especially when Brunner's glance drifted to his right arm – hanging limply at his side – and a frown crossed his face.

"Agent Coulson, I think perhaps you would let Dr. Wilson look you over? This was an unfortunate situation for you as well as your charge."

Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes, wondering how Brunner even knew his name. Probably Dan, whose eyes snapped back to Coulson with appreciable intensity.

"I can wait." Even as Phil said the words, he felt the world shift off-axis a little around him.

"But Agent Coulson –" Phil swayed and all of a sudden, Dan's hand flew out to steady him. Without warning, Dan closed his grip tightly Phil's upper arm.

Around his right bicep. Right on top of the bullet crease from 11 hours earlier, which now throbbed with every pulse of his heart. When the fingers locked onto the wound, pain flared up Phil's shoulder, and suddenly, the world started to spin.

"Oh, shit." Phil heard Dan's words remotely, even as a pair of strong arms came around his back, providing support. Coulson couldn't keep his feet now, though, even if he'd wanted to. He felt his knees buckle, and heard Dan – as well as two other voices – curse distantly.

And as everything went first to grey and then finally to black, he swore he heard Dan mutter softly in his ear.

"Of course you'd pass out. Because we're doing nothing the easy way today."

* * *

Phil Coulson smelled antiseptic.

That, and dirt and blood and something else. It itched at his consciousness, and as all of his senses started to return, Phil realized three things.

One, he was flat on his back.

Two, an IV needle was firmly attached in his hand.

And three, Dan Wilson was at his side, muttering under his breath. When Phil opened his eyes, Dan stopped, and turned to look him right in the eye. He opened his mouth, started to speak, seemingly bit back the words, and then finally let out a long, harried sigh.

"I knew I should've checked you out after that shower." Dan's face grew serious. "Why didn't you just say something?" Dan held up a hand before Phil could open his mouth – almost before he finished the question. "OK, dumb question, I know the answer, and yes, I get it. It's still damned stupid."

Phil knew that, and he knew he'd get a lecture at some later point. Dan could only let things go so far, and right now, both he and Clint had to be on his shit list.

 _Clint..._  Phil tried to lever himself up on his elbows, only to have his right arm groan in protest and his head ache in protest. Dan put a hand to his chest, and firmly pushed him back to onto the gurney Phil suddenly realized he was on.

"You, stay down. You're not going anywhere until I look at that arm." Phil opened his mouth to protest, but Dan cut him off. "Relax, you've been out all of 10 minutes. Barton's still out like a light, and Lukas said he'd page us as soon as he showed any sign of waking up."

His immediate worries addressed, Coulson allowed himself to relax back against the thin mattress underneath him – and looked around. He saw curtains, and medical equipment, chairs and a small table covered with medical supplies, including gauze, surgical scrub soap and a surgical instrument packet.

He looked at Dan with confusion.

"Where-"

"In a pre-op room." Dan glared at him. "Not like we needed any more excitement, but no, you had to go play superhero. We dragged your sorry ass in here and started an IV."

That answered the how, but...

"Huh – why'd I..."

"Exhaustion, dehydration, low blood sugar – all of the above, none of the above. Take your pick." Dan pointed his finger across the bed, and Phil followed the gesture to another table.

"Feel up to eating something? I've got a can of Coke and your choice of a granola bar, toast or yogurt." A small smile creased Dan's face. "And no, your choice cannot be 'none of the above.'"

Phil nodded, and reached for the can of Coke, noting with appreciation that Dan had already popped the tab. He took a long pull from the can, letting the drink bubble its way down his throat and settle into his long-empty stomach. After a moment to make sure it would stay down, he contemplated the other items, then picked up the piece of toast – stone cold, but with strawberry jam and butter – and started nibbling.

Dan watched him each with satisfaction, and when it looked like he was convinced Phil would cooperate, he picked up the sponge, soaked it with the surgical soap and started gently scrubbing at the wound on Phil's arm. It was only then that Phil noticed the sleeve to his scrub shirt had been slit open from the shoulder, leaving the angry wound on his arm bare.

"As soon as you're done eating, you're taking antibiotics." Dan didn't pause from what he was doing, just talked over him and the wound, filling the space between them with conversation. It was almost like Dan had to talk. So Phil just let him, knowing that when the physician needed to say something, there was nothing Coulson would be able to do to stop him. He was a lot like Clint in that way – when the archer wanted to talk there was little Phil could do to stop him either.

The topic Dan chose, though, caught Coulson completely by surprise. When he thought back to it later, he would recognize the purposeful way Dan had spoken, the reason for the story, and what the doctor had hoped to convey. Dan had wanted his mind on something,  _anything_ , except the situation at hand, but he'd also wanted to drive home the full weight of what Phil and Clint had done.

"You recruited me, Phil. You know I've been here before, and why." And Phil did. Dan had graduated from West Point as a second lieutenant, command ready if the U.S. Army had seen fit. They'd chosen another route with Dan, though.

"They knew I was a medic at heart, and they knew where I'd do the most good. So, they stuck me in an Army forward unit – what they used to call battalion aid. I saw … God, Phil, the shit that happened over here the first time – the kids, teenagers who should've been in school, flirting with their girlfriends, worrying about getting drunk and sleeping it off on a Saturday? Those same kids, they would bleed to death because we couldn't stop one side from shooting at the other over the stupidest damned things."

Dan swallowed hard, and Phil wondered if he was seeing a few ghosts. God only knew that the bitter war here had created enough of them, and Dan had been here for two long, hard years. Phil had read the man's service file.

He knew that Dan had hated to see the destruction, the sheer insanity of killing because of a name or a family line. Eventually, it had driven him to a place where he'd taken chances, some more foolish than others. The last had him running out into a field after a group of kids who had somehow wandered into a live fire zone. A mortar had gone off within feet of Dan, and he'd ended up losing part of his right foot. He'd also earned a Silver Star, an honorable discharge and a trip back to the States.

"When I got back to Washington … it was like an obsession. All I wanted was med school. Between the distinguished service medal and my grades, I had my pick of schools. You saw the list, I could've gone anywhere." Phil just nodded, because he  _had_  seen the list of places where Dan had applied – and accepted. West Point had the weight and honor of the U.S. military behind it, and Dan was one of their best and brightest. Hell, it was part of the reason why Phil – and SHIELD – had been so high on recruiting him.

"That first year at John Hopkins, half the students thought I was crazy. The other half were convinced I would burn out. Any spare time I had, I was in either the ER or in surgery, watching everything I could. I just could NOT pick it up fast enough." Dan sounded exhilarated now, a small grin creasing his feature. "That's how I met Brunner, by the way. Same year, came down on the side of the fast and furious burnout bets.

"When he was wrong, and I graduated top of my class – and made sure every instructor I had saw how brilliant he was with orthopedics – he said he owed me any favor I chose to claim." Dan looked away for a second, drawing in a deep breath. "That's the one I called in today."

Phil's stomach dropped out at the revelation. That Barton had inspired that kind of loyalty...Phil started to speak, but Dan held up a hand.

"Don't. I've always held on to that one in case of a real emergency, and there's no one else I'd rather use it on, except maybe you." Dan looked back finally, and Phil caught a hint of amusement in the doctor's eyes. "Though if you aren't smart enough to get a bullet crease looked at, it'd be a waste of resources."

Phil let the weak joke stand, knowing Dan was probably more stressed about the situation than he looked. Not wanting to stir up that hornet's nest, he just let the point go. There really wasn't anything else to say. Clint – who had shown up at SHIELD and distanced himself from everyone, both through talent and by choice – probably didn't have a fucking clue that he had the same loyalty and dedication from others that he showed to Phil time and time again. It made Phil draw in a shaky breath, and then let it out slowly, all in an attempt to keep his emotions in check.

How the hell had this all gone to hell so fast?

After a few moments of silence, Dan returned to scrubbing the bullet crease, slowly and methodically. Phil knew the wound needed to be debrided, knew he'd let it fester too long, and knew that Dan needed to do this. Phil wouldn't go so far as to say he welcomed the pain, but it served its own purpose. It grounded him in the here and now.

Dan pulled at a particularly sensitive part of the crease, and Phil flinched.

"Shit. I know it's gotta hurt like hell, Phil." Dan didn't stop, though, continued working at the dead skin and the infected area. Phil closed his eyes. He then pulled in a deep breath, and let it out slowly, on a count of five. He could deal with this. This,  _this_  was nothing. It wasn't a bullet wound to his shoulder and it wasn't going to potentially knock him out of the game.

He could deal with this. He had to.

It went on like that for a few minutes, Dan finding new areas to debride, Phil repeating his measures of control. After one particularly tender area, though, Dan stopped, and Phil heard the instruments drop onto the table.

He opened his eyes to see Dan watching him intently, and Phil knew, just  _knew_ , there was more coming.

"Barton took a bullet for you, didn't he." It wasn't a question, and Dan didn't seem to care about waiting for the answer. "He saw something, and decided to stop it, and that's what's got you this crazed."

Phil looked away, but he nodded. He vaguely remembered Dan being on the phone with him when Phil had realized that horrifying point for himself.

Dan went on.

"Fine. We'll skip that for now. It's not my conversation to have anyhow."

Phil looked back to find Dan grimacing.

"Not that I want to be around when you two have it, but that's between you and him. I'm staying out of it on principle." Dan picked up a bottle of saline, dampened a gauze pad, and moved to continue cleaning the wound. He paused again.

"Did you two do your jobs?"

Phil fought back the urge to answer, "what jobs?" because Dan was gesturing with the gauze pad and swiping at the air, and whatever else the doctor still had to do, Phil really didn't want him annoyed while he was doing it.

So, he thought for a long moment, wondering what Fury had found out in the last few hours – whether he'd managed to kill McGuire – then nodded again.

"I think so."  _God, I hope so._  Because if they hadn't and this all exploded anyhow, then what the hell was the point?

Dan watched him for a long moment, then nodded in return.

"Good. Once around the block with these fuckers was enough for my taste."

Phil had to smile slightly at that. He couldn't agree more.

* * *

Phil glanced up from what had become a blank stare at a scuffed tile on the ground when the curtain opened suddenly. Fury strode in with all of his usual confidence and came to stop at Dan's shoulder, his eyes on the mostly-stitched wound.

He didn't say anything, just hummed in what Phil thought might have been vague surprise.

Phil supposed that was warranted. It wasn't usually  _him_  that needed medical treatment after a mission. And it definitely wasn't like him to leave an injury untreated. The look Fury shot him told him everything he needed to know about what the director thought about his choice to keep the wound to himself. Fury – being Fury – didn't comment. Instead he stepped back and folded his hands behind his back.

Phil found himself thinking of what Clint would say if he were here. Some snarky comment about parade rest, no doubt – and it would include some reference to a stick and an ass. The thought had Phil's lips quirking despite the situation.

Fury seemed to read what he was thinking, because the man's lips quirked slightly as well before his face smoothed out once again.

"Just got off the phone with the team."

He said it almost casually, like it was just any other day, any other situation. Phil knew Fury was just doing what Fury did best – staying professional. That was what made Fury, well, Fury. He had the ability to stay calm, collected, and detached in any situation.

Right now, Phil hated it and was grateful for it at the same time.

He hated it because this wasn't just any other day, this wasn't just any other situation. This was  _Clint._  And this day, this situation, may have changed  _everything_  forever.

He was grateful because he knew that someone had to keep perspective. There  _had_  been something bigger going on here, after all. Dan had just reminded Phil of that and made that bigger picture startlingly clear. They'd stopped a war. But Goddamnit, right now Phil just didn't fucking  _care_. So in the end it was good that Fury did, that Dan did.

Phil didn't realize he'd just been staring until Fury's eye flashed with something – concern maybe? Sympathy? Understanding?

Phil wasn't sure.

He forced himself to pay attention when the director started relaying information – it was important, whether he particularly cared at this point or not.

"They were able to  _persuade_  the local police to leave the scene to them."

Phil smiled slightly at that. He'd done his fair share of  _persuading_  local police in his day. Being SHIELD had its perks.

"You hit McGuire with three shots, all the chest. He was already dead when they got to him. He had a laptop with him and we've got tech working on it. We already knew his gun was a .22, but it was an assault rifle…"

"I figured that's what it was," Dan interjected with a nod, not raising his eyes from his work on Phil's arm. "With the amount of damage it did, it had to be coming at pretty high velocity."

Fury nodded in agreement.

"It was the same weapon that killed Andrić.  _Why_  the man chose to use an assault rifle to do that, I don't know, since Andrić was all of five feet away from him."

Phil frowned. He didn't remember seeing a weapon on Andrić. But there had been a weapons locker near the door inside the room the man had been in.

"McGuire probably heard Clint and me taking out their men and decided to cut his losses. Kill Andrić, take the evidence and get the hell out before it could be tied to him. It might have been the first weapon he came across in that locker."

"But he circled back to kill you two." Dan frowned in confusion. "Why not just get away clean?"

_A guy like that would want to make sure no one was left to tie him to this plot._

The memory of Clint's words, less than a minute before he went down, rose unbidden in Phil's mind. What had Clint called him – a paranoid son of a bitch?

"He wouldn't have known if we'd identified him or not. He couldn't take the risk. He'd been off everybody's radar for so long, he'd want to keep it that way."

Fury was nodding, obviously having already reached the same conclusion.

"The team has cleaned it up and squared it away. And they even managed to track down a dozen more men in two other SUVs that were all tied to this clusterfuck of a situation."

Phil's eyebrows arched in surprise. He didn't even remember telling anybody about the teams that had been chasing them through the city.

"How'd they do that?"

"The team was just getting ready to head out when two matching black SUVs rounded the corner, saw them, and tried to flee. Our men pursued."

And that was that. When a SHIELD team pursued someone, nine times out of ten they caught them. When a SHIELD team pursued someone tied to the shooting of one of their own, they didn't just  _catch_ them…

"They were dealt with."

They eliminated them.

Clint may not have many – really any – friends in SHIELD, mostly by choice, but also because he was the most elite SHIELD agent in the entire network. He was  _the_  Hawkeye. He inspired awe in many and fear in most. Phil knew for a fact that his name was one spoken in whispers on SHIELD bases across the world. Whether they'd ever met him or not, almost everyone knew his name – knew what he was capable of. It was why Phil hadn't been surprised when Jack Robbins had asked about him.

"So it's done?" Phil found himself asking.

"It's done. This mission is closed. The president's flight is landing within the hour and as far as he will ever be concerned there was never a threat. That's not even mentioning you brought down a Priority Two target. All in all, Phil, this was a win."

Phil frowned at him. Clint may never fire a bow again. Clint may end up with permanent damage to his shoulder.

"A win?"

Fury sighed, knowing exactly what was going through Phil's mind.

"In the scope of the mission – yes."

 _Right_. Phil sighed and nodded.  _The bigger picture_. Clint had always been better at seeing that than him.

"You and Barton did good here, Phil. Take what you can from that."

Phil nodded again. Dan had implied essentially the same thing – but it was easier said than done.

"There," Dan broke the slight silence that had fallen over them. He taped a gauze pad over the stitched wound on Phil's arm. Then he held up a blue sling.

"I don't need that." Phil's response was quick and firm.

"Like you didn't need treatment, or food, or sleep, or…"

"Fine." Phil snatched the sling and fitted it around his arm. Dan wordlessly looped the strap over his shoulder and velcroed it into place. Phil smoothed his blue scrub shirt, pulling out a fold beneath the strap. He was just about to open his mouth to ask if Dan was happy in the most sarcastic way he could when the door to the room opened again.

A blonde nurse stuck her head in.

"Dr. Brunner sent me to tell you that Mr. Barton is showing signs of waking up."

Phil was already across the room before she'd even gotten the sentence out. She stepped back, allowing him to pass her into the hall. Phil started one way, only to pause and turn around in confusion. Dan, who had followed nearly on his heels with Fury, caught his elbow and propelled him the direction he'd originally started.

"Which curtain?" he asked over his shoulder to the nurse, who was keeping pace with them.

"Three."

Dan nodded and headed towards the PACU, towing Phil with him, Fury following a step behind. Phil couldn't even bring himself to care that he was being led like a child. Nearly twelve hours had passed since he'd watched Clint take a bullet for him and he was finally going to see him. Was finally going to see for himself that Clint was alive and breathing. He didn't really register the different doors they passed through, didn't register the halls they walked, but he zeroed in on the door labeled Post-anesthesia Care Unit the moment it was in sight.

Dan pushed the door open for him and nodded towards the third curtain down the line. It was drawn.

He vaguely registered Dan releasing him, letting him go ahead under his own power. He barely noticed that both Dan and Fury lagged behind as Phil slid behind the curtain. Dr. Brunner was in there, but he stood as soon as Phil entered, and quietly left. Phil never spared him a glance.

 _Clint_.

He wasn't awake yet, but Phil had watched Clint come out of anesthesia or unconsciousness enough times to know the signs. He moved to Clint's side, taking in the bandages packed around Clint's left shoulder. Phil knew that once Clint was awake and attempting to move, that arm would become fully immobilized – it was the nature of shoulder injuries. He sighed at the pale tint to Clint's normally healthy skin. The way the dark bruises on his chest seemed to stand out more prominently now than they had all those hours ago when Phil had seen them the first time.

Phil took a breath, released it, and just took in the sight. Clint was beaten and bruised, but alive – he was down,  _again_ , but he wasn't out. Phil reached for Clint's right hand, but paused, noting the fresh gauze wrapped around it. No doubt there were fresh stitches below that gauze because he seriously doubted Clint had made it through that firefight - short as it may have been - without popping at least a few.

His lips quirked in fond exasperation and he carefully reached for Clint's loosely curled fingers, squeezing gently.

"It's okay, kid, I'm here now."

As if he'd been waiting for that assurance from the beginning, Clint's hand tightened suddenly around his and his blue grey eyes twitched open.

* * *

Clint hated hospitals. He hated the infirmary. He hated that the first thing he was ever aware of was the smell.

Antiseptic.

He hated that smell. It was the first thing that registered in his foggy brain as the blanket of unconsciousness started to withdraw.

The smell made him pull the blanket back and retreat for a moment. He was still too out of it to fully register what that smell meant, but it had enough of a negative connotation that it made him want to ignore the pull of consciousness and stay in the safety of sleep for a while.

He managed to win that battle for a few seconds – minutes – hours…he wasn't sure because he lost time. But the next time the smell invaded and the blanket receded, he became aware of something else in the immediate area. A presence. A presence so familiar that the safety of unconsciousness didn't seem nearly as appealing anymore.

Fingers tightened around his own, a grip that was warm and familiar.

"It's okay, kid, I'm here now."

_Phil._

Sudden fragments of memory assaulted him. A red dot on Phil's chest. The sound of a shot. Blood on Phil's hands. His muddled mind didn't really get beyond that memory. His hand tightened around Phil's instinctively, pain from the cut on his palm ignored, and he forced his heavy eyelids open, panic tightening in his chest.

His eyes flew to Phil, searching for signs of a wound. He felt his breathing speed up and his heart start pounding as that panic intensified at the sight of the blue sling. He hadn't stopped it. He hadn't saved him. He hadn't been fast enough.

His drug-muddled mind didn't put together that Phil was standing up – Clint was laying down. Phil had a small bandage on his bicep – Clint had the pressure of heavy bandaging on his shoulder.

None of that clicked.

Lucky for Clint, Phil could read him better than anyone.

"I'm okay, Clint." The words were firm and demanded attention.

Some of panic faded and Clint raised his eyes from the sling to meet Phil's gaze.

"I'm okay."

There was something in Phil's voice when he said it that time, something Clint was too tired to identify. He blinked and suddenly sleep was sounding really good again. Phil was okay. That's all that mattered. The hand around his tightened briefly.

"Just sleep Clint."

Well, as long as Phil insisted. Clint let his eyes fall closed again, relaxing back against his pillow.

Phil watched Clint's heart rate slow and his breathing even out. A deep sigh escaped him as he sank down on the edge of Clint's bed. He'd known the moment he saw the look in Clint's bleary eyes that he was panicking. He didn't need the heart monitor's pace to increase or Clint's breathing to speed up to tell him that. All he needed was one unguarded look at those eyes.

Clint didn't remember much, that was obvious, at least not right now. Drugs did that, and so did trauma. But Phil could tell immediately what was causing the panic. The way Clint's eyes had pinned on the damned sling had made it pretty obvious.

So he'd assured the damned kid he was okay and watched the panic fade. Then he'd said it again, with less intensity and more emotion. Only Clint could be lying in bed after an eleven-hour surgery and be more worried about Phil than he was himself. Clint's selflessness wasn't a surprise, but it still hit him hard. It still made Phil want to strangle him and tell him to worry about himself for once instead of Phil. But it also made him want to wrap the kid in a hug for caring  _so_  much.

Phil ignored the small part of his brain that was whispering if the situations were reversed, he'd have reacted in the same fashion – more worried about Clint than himself. That it  _was_ how he'd reacted for the eleven hours Clint was in surgery and ignored the festering bullet crease on his arm.

Clint had seemed to sense the change in tone, but the pull of unconsciousness was strong and he had seen Clint losing the battle. So he'd told him to sleep and Clint had almost immediately obeyed him.

Phil finally felt like he could breathe easily for the first time since that shot had cracked across the silence of the evening. His eyes drifted from Clint's lax features to the bandages immobilizing the arm. Pain settled in his chest once again as he contemplated what Clint might have sacrificed without realizing it. Clint still didn't know – didn't have any idea about the full scope of what had happened.

Phil sighed deeply again.

How the hell was he supposed to tell him?

* * *

End of Chapter 7

Clint will be be much more prominent from here on out :) Yay! I love that guy!

Here's your preview

* * *

_"You look like hell."_

_He watched Phil blink, shock rising in his gaze. Then the man laughed lightly and Clint managed a tired smile in return._

_"You're the one in the hospital bed and **I**  look like hell?"_


	8. You Don't Think About Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Kylen is the best beta ever...when I was literally banging my head against a brick wall with one of the scenes in this chapter, she kicked my butt into gear and was VITAL in getting me through that wall and to where I wanted to be :) She also can be credited with Dr. Brunner and all his dialogue - he was her creation. She's flipping amazing!
> 
> Warning: there is some cursing at the end of this chapter - be forewarned.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Loyalty is something you give regardless of what you get back._

**_Charles Jones_ **

* * *

Dan and Fury both looked up when Brunner slipped out of the curtain, giving them both a weary smile.

"How is he?" Dan asked as the three of them moved a few paces away from the curtain.

"As well as can be expected," Brunner replied easily. He looked to Fury. "I assume you'll be wanting to transfer him as soon as possible?"

Fury nodded. Dan sighed. It was standard protocol. A public hospital wasn't secure enough for any SHIELD agent to remain for an extended period of time, much less an agent like Barton – who survived his job by living under the radar. Dan didn't like it, didn't like the idea of moving him so quickly after such a serious trauma, but he knew it would be necessary. He shot a look at Brunner, who nodded and spoke.

"I must insist, however, that you wait for at least twelve hours."

Fury opened his mouth to protest, but Dan stepped in before he could.

"Moving him too quickly after such a major surgery poses the risk of complications in transit. Barton doesn't need anything else working against him."

Fury sighed deeply but nodded and Dan realized for the first time that Fury looked just as worn and exhausted as the rest of them.

"Twelve hours, no more."

Leave it to Fury to state it like a command so he could regain some control over the situation. It almost made Dan smile at the familiarity of it.

"I'll make the arrangements to keep Agent Barton in the recovery ward until we leave," Brunner promised. "It will save some paperwork in the end, I hope."

"Thank you again, Lukas." Dan reached to shake the man's hand. "Go get some rest, okay? You've earned it."

Brunner smiled wearily again and nodded. He shook Dan's hand firmly in return, and when he did, Dan caught a glint of humor in the man's eyes.

"I am still trying to figure out how you could consistently manage in medical school to function as you did, Daniel. I, however, cannot." Brunner inclined his head toward the doorway, and chuckled softly. "I have been promised a bunk in the pre-op ward, and I intend to find it as soon as I manage to, as you put it, twist a few elbows. Please have me paged if you need to."

Dan nodded and watched the man turn and walk away, smiling at the complete lack of ego in his counterpart. And at the talent he'd been fortunate enough to find out about. Then he turned to watch Fury lean against the desk at the nurse's station across from Barton's curtained area.

The man was the picture of calm collectedness. His arms were causally crossed across his chest and he didn't seem the least bit ruffled by any of part of this situation. But Dan knew he had rushed through the surgical wing right along with him and Phil – so Dan read between the lines.

Fury was here. That told Dan more than anything else ever would. Fury didn't just drop everything and fly nine hours every time an agent got shot. Of course, neither did Dan. Clint Barton was more to both of them than either of them probably had realized – or cared to admit, in Fury's case.

They were both close friends with Phil, both cared about the man. Both cared about Barton in the beginning because they cared about Phil and Phil cared about Barton.

That had sure as hell changed somewhere along the way.

Dan remembered the first time he'd met the smartass archer, close to three years ago now. Phil had dragged his sorry ass into the infirmary as soon as the jet from Vienna had landed and he'd been green-lighted by Fury – a bullet to the trapezius muscle above his collar bone. The bullet had missed anything vital, and really hadn't qualified for much more status than a "through and through", though Dan had been forced to put in about 10 stitches on each side of the "through".

When he finished, he covered the wound with gauze, given the kid an injection of antibiotics – and tried to put the arm in a sling. He'd gotten a look that stated so firmly and in no uncertain terms, "Fuck off, I'll do what I want" that Dan had almost laughed. He'd taken a liking to the kid then and there, and as he'd stomped out of the infirmary, Dan had wondered just what the hell Coulson had gotten himself into with the new recruit.

He'd only seen Barton in passing over the next six months, as any issues that came up went to whichever doctor happened to be on duty in the infirmary at that point in time. Dan hadn't really seen much of Phil in that period of time, either. All he knew was that Phil had gotten himself assigned as the kid's handler, which Dan figured would either be the most brilliant pairing in SHIELD history - or would result in Coulson throwing himself off the base's roof.

But the stories he got on a daily basis from Todd Bryan and a host of new recruits on the wrong end of Barton's sparring skills confirmed Dan'd been right – he DID like the kid. And as the months wore on, it became clear that Phil had made the right call, both in bringing the kid in AND in becoming his handler.

He didn't realize how right until the two returned from the Andes mission – Coulson frostbitten in all sorts of odd places and with huge dark rings under his eyes, Barton with a nasty staph infection that antibiotics had just begun to bring under control. After Dan had checked them both out, Coulson had waved the kid out of the room and told him to, in no uncertain terms, go back to his bunk room and SLEEP.

This time, there was no rebellion in the youngster's eyes, just a weary nod and a retreat out the door that spoke volumes of the respect that had grown between the two men. And after Barton had left, Coulson looked at him with the same respect and pulled him a step closer to their little circle. He wasn't quite  _in_ it, but he was one of the select few that got a clear view.

_"Look...I need a favor."_

_"Anything. Just don't expect me to clear him for duty for at least two weeks. That staph-"_

_Phil waved him off._

_"Make it a month. But treatment comes from you from now on, okay? Not whoever's on duty, not whoever's available. You."_

That had been the first time Dan had truly seen just how much Barton had meant to Phil. For some reason, he'd been a little surprised. Thinking back now, he shouldn't have been. Phil wasn't the type to devote time and energy into something he didn't care about.

After Phil had made that request, Dan had taken over all of Barton's general medical care. And he'd come to the rapid realization that Barton's newfound trust and respect for Phil had  _not_  transferred to him – not yet at least. He'd still managed to get the kid to do what he wanted him to – well,  _Phil_  managed to get the kid to do what Dan wanted him to with nothing but a stern glare that made Dan, himself, want to hop to.

But somewhere along the way – between then and now – Phil had stopped needing to send Barton those stern glares to get him to obey Dan's instructions. Somewhere along the way Barton had started looking at Dan with a measure of that same respect and trust he had in his eyes when he looked at Phil. And somewhere along that same way, Dan had stopped caring about Barton just because Phil did – he'd started caring because he had built a friendship of his own with the archer.

Dan sighed, leaning against the desk next to Fury and pinning his eyes on the curtain hiding the archer and Phil from view. He heard Fury sigh, almost in response.

And they waited.

Fury blinked deliberately, keeping his features schooled, his posture relaxed. It was his job to remain collected and in control, even if he felt less in control now than he had in a long time. His mind kept replaying Dan's words over and over.

_Even with the surgery, he might have permanent disability in that arm._

Barton without out his bow would be like Fury without his eye patch. The eye patch had been part of who he was for far longer than he cared to remember. That bow had been part of Barton for as long as Fury  _could_  remember. Fury found himself recalling – with more fondness than he'd possessed at the time – the first time he'd met the damned smartass.

How an eighteen year old could snap out the word "sir" like it was the dirtiest insult there was still baffled him. How the same kid – because that's all he'd been at the time, a kid – could fix Fury with such a weighty, analyzing glare, one that rivaled Fury's own, wasn't such a mystery anymore.

The kid had what it took to back that glare up.  _That_ had been made abundantly clear the first time the kid had hit the range. Even with a hole in the muscle of his shoulder, he'd still hit targets with a scary kind of accuracy. Then he'd been unleashed on the obstacle course and into sparring sessions – and Fury had rapidly become impressed even before Phil started talking the kid up. He'd kept those feeling to himself – not one to wear what he was thinking on his sleeve – but it had made green-lighting Phil to be the boy's handler a little easier. The kid had been made of nothing but toughness, talent, intelligence, and a hell of a lot of potential.

Phil had been the right man to mold all of that into something great. And he had. He had worked with the kid – and his ass load of issues – with more patience that Fury had thought was deserved. Something about Barton had drawn Phil in, though, and for a long time Fury hadn't had a damn clue what it was.

He'd started to see it though, as time wore on. There was just something about Clint Barton – something endearing. He had a fascinating inner strength that Fury often found himself counting on when the kid got himself into "situations".

Situations like this where Fury knew that that inner strength was going to be the difference. Barton had what it took to come back from this. If it was possible – Barton would come back. The kid was too damn stubborn to accept anything less.

Fury looked up when Phil slid out from behind the curtain, looking more at ease than he had since Fury had found him in the waiting room.

"He was awake, only for about a minute, but he was awake."

Fury's lips quirked at the same time Dan's spread into a smile.

"All that's left to do is wait," Dan sighed with a heavy measure of relief. "He'll wake up again and he'll be more aware next time – and it'll get better each time after that."

Phil nodded.

"I want to stay – I need to be here when he wakes up again.

Dan nodded, not surprised in the least, and then glanced at Fury, who was watching Phil in that assessing, analytical way the director watched someone when he had something he wanted to say. Dan figured Fury wouldn't say it if he was here.

"Okay." Dan pushed off the nurse's station. "I'm gonna hit the cafeteria, any requests?" He waited a beat but neither of the other men responded. "No? Okay, I'll just surprise you then."

Phil watched Dan walk off, a weary set to his shoulders that Phil was certain probably mirrored his own. They all needed rest, and now that Clint was out of the woods, they might be able to get it sometime soon.

"Phil."

Fury's tone drew Phil's eyes to him instantly. Fury never spoke with that mixture of compassion, firmness, and worry all wrapped up into one word.

"Does he know?"

Phil sighed deeply and shook his head.

"I don't even think he remembered that he'd been the one that had been shot."

Fury nodded and seemed to weigh his next words before he spoke them.

"Whatever happens – with Barton's rehab – whether he can fire that bow again or not. He's still the best agent I've got. He's SHIELD – no matter what."

Phil blinked.

"I trust you'll make sure he knows that."

Phil swallowed and nodded. Fury nodded crisply in return and looked at his watch.

"I've got to get back to New York. That damned Russian assassin is giving us hell and none of our resources can get even a suspected location."

Phil nodded again. He'd been keeping up with the reports of Natasha Romanoff, also known as the Black Widow. The frustration level within SHIELD had been steadily growing over the last few months. SHIELD needed another rival assassin like it needed a hole in its collective head, and Coulson knew the only reason no one had been green-lighted to go after her was the lack of details.

Until a day ago, he'd been sure that when they found her, Clint would be the one sent after her. Now he could only hope that maybe by the time they got a location, Clint would  _still_ be the one they sent – even if he was sent without his bow.

"Thank you for coming, Director," Phil held out a hand.

Fury looked momentarily amused by the formality but shook Phil's hand anyway.

"At my urging, Brunner is arranging to have Barton transferred to the Vienna base once he and Wilson are satisfied it's safe to move him."

Phil wasn't surprised – not by the decision to move Clint or by Fury's "urging" on the matter.

"You'll keep me updated on the situation?"

"Yes, sir."

Fury nodded and without further ado turned on his heel and strode away.

Phil watched him go, a small, but genuine, smile turning up the corner of his lips. Fury cared more than he would ever admit, because Phil knew that Fury's insistence to move Clint had less to do with protocol and more to do with security. Clint wasn't safe here, not really. In his "urging" Brunner and Dan to get Clint moved as soon as was safely possible, Fury showed his own form of worry and caring. A brusque, detached, demanding form of worry and caring – but worry and caring none the less.

That was just Fury. The man did everything his own way.

* * *

The second time Clint felt the pull of consciousness his mind antiseptic wasn't the only thing he smelled.

"Is that pudding?" Chocolate if his nose was serving him correctly.

Clint forced his eyes open, finding Phil sitting in the chair next to his bed, a spoonful of chocolate pudding halfway to his mouth.

"Are you eating my pudding?"

Clint was certain it was the morphine he felt pumping through his system that made his tone a touch whiny and pathetic as he said it.

"It's not  _your_  pudding. You haven't been awake to ask for any yet. Besides, there's more where this came from," Phil assured as he sat forward and set the pudding cup on the bed table. Clint tracked his movements with his eyes, his gaze dropping to the sling encasing Phil's right arm. He silently followed the line of Phil's arm, his eyes coming to rest on the bandage on the man's bicep.

It didn't look life threatening. Clint raised his eyes back to Phil's face to find the man watching him closely. He frowned at the bloodshot quality of his eyes and the dark smudges beneath them. His "worry lines" were standing out on his forehead and Clint wondered if that had to do with the weight of the bandages Clint felt on his own shoulder.

"You look like hell."

He watched Phil blink, shock rising in his gaze. Then the man laughed lightly and Clint managed a tired smile in return.

"You're the one in the hospital bed and  _I_  look like hell?"

Clint shrugged his right shoulder.

"You do." Clint rolled his head on his pillow, taking in the mass of white gauze packed around his shoulder. Memories filtered into his brain and he frowned slightly, looking back at Phil.

"You remember." Phil seemed a little relieved at that – like he had reason to believe Clint might not remember – he wondered if he'd woken up before and just didn't remember.

"You okay?" Clint asked carefully, watching Phil's eyes flash with something.

"I'm okay," Phil assured. "You're the one everybody's been worrying about."

"So what's the damage?" Clint managed a small smirk.

The smirk faded as he watched something pass across Phil's eyes. Something he rarely saw in Phil's eyes – hesitation. Phil shifted forward in his chair, meeting Clint's eyes and resting his elbows on his knees.

"What is it?" Even half-drugged out of his mind, Phil could see Clint already picking himself up and brushing himself off. "Am I gonna be out of the game a little longer than normal? Feels like I knocked myself on my ass pretty good this time."

"Clint…" Phil trailed off and closed his eyes, wishing Clint wasn't anywhere near as perceptive as he was. Shit, how the hell did he go about telling him this?

"Phil, what is it?" Phil took a deep breath before looking up and meeting Clint's eyes. When he did, he saw a look he'd come to label the teen's "no more bullshit" look – an expression born from too many encounters with the council and more than a few run-ins with Fury.

Phil had never once seen it directed at himself. He had to tell him. He couldn't dance around it anymore – it wouldn't do either of them any good.

"Clint…" Phil took another breath and then continued. "The bullet that hit your shoulder did some serious damage. It tore through ligaments, tendons, and muscles, hit the inside of your shoulder blade and then bounced back, coming to rest in something called the brachial plexus."

"What's that?" Clint asked carefully, and drugs or no drugs, Phil could tell the archer's body tightened noticeably, could almost see the wheels in Clint's head start turning faster as the reality of what Phil was trying to communicate settled in.

"It's the nerves that control the arm."

Phil watched his expression fade from confusion to something like worry.

"What does that mean?"

"It means that your shoulder is in bad shape and you've got a long road ahead of you."

"Phil," Clint's tone was sharp but soft at the same time. It cut Phil to his core. "What does that  _mean?_ "

Phil made sure his eyes were locked on Clint's before he said the next words.

"It means that your shoulder has a lot of healing to do and there's a  _possibility_ that it won't heal right."

"How big of a possibility?"

Phil forced himself to take in another breath, barely able to stand the blossoming fear in Clint's eyes.

"It's impossible to tell." This time, Phil didn't back off. Clint needed the truth from him, fear or no fear. "There's a lot of different factors that play into this – scar tissue, physical therapy...Dan and the surgeon he called in will explain it better."

"What happens if it doesn't completely heal?" Clint demanded quietly.

Phil watched Clint's expression shifted again – moving away from worry to something closer to fear. He wanted to hedge around this, find some way to soften the news that could possible mean the end of Clint's world.

But he couldn't. And judging by the way Clint was looking at him – the archer already knew.

"You could end up with a permanent disability in your arm. And that would mean you wouldn't be able to fire you bow anymore."

And there it was – the reality that could mean the end of something that had been part of Clint for most of his life. Phil watched pain and fear so intense tear through Clint's eyes that he felt his own chest tighten as if the pain and fear were his own. Clint rolled his head away, hiding his eyes and his expression. Phil shifted forward further.

"Clint, look at me."

Clint didn't for a long moment, kept his face turned away and brought his bandaged right hand up to cover his eyes even further.

"Look at me." It wasn't a request any more. Phil needed him to know this wasn't the end – there was a fight ahead, but Clint had always been good at fighting.

Finally Clint dragged his hand down his face and turned back to Phil.

"If  _anyone_  can come out on the right side of this, it's you. And I'll be here to help you and so will Dan, and I guarantee when we get back to base, Todd will join the crew. If there is any chance that you can come back from this, I know...I  _know_  you can make it happen. It just ... this won't be easy, and you need to know it might not happen."

Clint shook his head in denial.

"Clint…"

"Just don't. I can't..." Clint closed his eyes and tried to force a deep breath. "Just give me a minute."

Phil fell silent and watch Clint force deep breaths with his eyes still closed. Phil felt a shot of pride. Clint had always had the rare ability to pull himself together, even when things were spinning out of control. Finally, he opened his eyes again and looked at Phil.

"But there's a chance right? A chance that I could still fire my bow?"

Phil nodded, but Clint didn't look reassured at all.

"But there's the same chance that I won't."

Phil nodded again. This time Clint nodded in return and looked away again, his eyes brighter than they had been moments before.

"Clint…"

"Just leave me alone, okay?"

The words weren't forceful or sharp, Phil wished they were. Instead they were soft and just a little broken.

"I can't do that, Clint. Remember? Never alone again, that's what I promised."

Something broke in what Phil could see of Clint's expression and it had him reaching to grip Clint's right forearm.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Phil wasn't sure the words were going to help, wasn't sure if Clint was even listening anymore. But then Clint's right arm shifted and broke Phil's grip. A moment later, Clint's hand locked around Phil's in a vice grip and Phil knew Clint had never really wanted him to leave in the first place – despite what he'd expressly requested.

So he didn't.

* * *

Phil watched Clint closely as Dr. Brunner finished his explanation of what had happened in Clint's shoulder – his words far more technical than Phil's ever could have been. Clint seemed to follow though, his eyes intense and focused as he drank in what Brunner was telling him – latching onto every piece of information. He was eleven hours out of surgery, anesthesia all but completely worn off, sitting up with his left arm strapped against his chest to immobilize it.

Phil was concerned.

Clint hadn't said much in the last six hours since Phil had told him the news – though to be fair, he'd been sleeping for about seventy five percent of that time. And Clint not saying much wasn't usually cause for concern. But this silence wasn't the usually contemplative or comfortable silence that Phil was accustomed to.

Clint was upset. And it was killing Phil that he couldn't do anything to fix that right now.

"Dr. Wilson has explained to me your proficiency with a bow and arrow, and the amount you normally use this tool." Brunner's tone was practical and logical, but also bordered on gentle, and Phil winched inwardly. Gentle was  _not_ something Clint would respond to right now, or for that matter, ever. He should have warned both Brunner and Dan against it.

Clint shifted against the pillows he was propped against.

"What are my odds?"

The blunt question caught Brunner, Dan  _and_  Phil by surprise.

"Barton…" Dan shook his head. "It doesn't work like that."

"Well what  _does_  it work like?"

"Clint." Phil sent out the warning calmly and quietly.

"What?" Clint challenged, showing more life and animation than he had since before he'd been shot. "Don't I have a right to know how much I've got stacked against me?"

"It's not a matter of odds, Agent Barton." Brunner heaved a sigh, and with it, Phil could see the tension lines grow on the man's face. "An injury like this, it isn't measured by saying 50-50, 60-40. You set out to return the patient to normal function, everyday activity. In your case, we strive for more, because you are used to doing more."

Brunner paused, thought for a long moment, then added, "It would be like any significant sports medicine injury. You may have a complete recovery, or you may have permanent weakness. Right now, it's just impossible to..."

"Predict, yeah, I got that."

If Brunner was offended by Clint's sharp interruption, he didn't show it. Instead he glanced at his watch.

"I've got to go make the necessary preparations for your transfer, I'll leave you all to talk things over."

Dan nodded, stepping out of the way so Brunner could push his way out of the curtained area.

"Barton, I know this is hard…"

"Do you, Wilson? Do you  _know_?"

"Clint." Phil warned again, more firmly this time.

"It's okay, Phil, if the kid could scare me off with his attitude, we'd never have made it past our first meeting." Dan returned his eyes to Clint's scowling gaze. "I  _do_  know, better than you think."

Clint shook his head.

"I don't want to talk about it right now." To drive that point home, Clint slid himself down in his bed and clamped his mouth closed.

"Fair enough." Dan sighed deeply, shared a glance with Phil and then sighed again.

Phil shot a look at Clint, who met his eyes for only a moment before he dropped his head back and closed his eyes with a sigh. Phil shook his head.

Yeah, he was definitely concerned.

* * *

Phil sat back in his seat, watching Dan check one last time that Clint's gurney was secured. Clint was sleeping, a round of morphine having sent him straight to never-never land – the intent to have him sleep through the short half-hour flight to the Vienna base.

Dan finally sat down next to Phil with a sigh, strapping himself in as the jet started taxiing across the runway.

"Did Brunner get the system cleared?" Dan asked, resting back against his seat with a sigh.

"Not a trace of Clint's stay is left. He's got the only hard copies of Clint's chart and file in that briefcase," Phil nodded at the leather briefcase resting next to Brunner's seat. The doctor was talking on his phone, to who Phil thought might be his wife – and paying them no mind.

Dan nodded.

"So how are  _you_  doing?"

"I'm fine." Phil's response was short and clipped.

"Yeah, I don't believe you, like,  _at all_."

Phil sighed, shooting a glance at his sleeping charge.

"Phil, you've been sitting next to the kid's bed non-stop for twelve hours. The only reason he hasn't sensed the guilt rolling off of you is because he's drugged six ways from Sunday right now. "

Phil didn't respond.

"I get it. He took a bullet for you. You feel guilty because now he stands to lose something that's been his life for years."

Phil spoke nearly in the same breath that Dan finished.

"That's not it, Dan."

"Then what?"

Phil shook his head opening his mouth to speak but then closing it again.

"Okay, I get it. This is a conversation you obviously need to have with the kid – he's the only one that can tell you that whatever you're blaming yourself for is stupid and I can guaran-fuckin-tee that whatever the hell it is, he is  _not_  going to blame you. You could push the kid off a cliff and he'd say he jumped so no one would think less of you."

Phil leaned his head back against his headrest as Dan huffed in what might have been exasperated, but affectionate, annoyance. He rolled his head to the right and looked at Clint again, watching as he shifted a little, his brow furrowing and then smoothing again.

Phil sighed. Whether Clint held what happened against him or not, Phil couldn't let it go. It was his fault. He'd let his guard down. He'd opened that damned door, cleared the immediate area with his eyes – including that fucking alley – and then let himself get distracted by the phone call with Fury. Clint had been there by that point, scanning the area for himself. Phil hadn't even thought to close the door. And then everything had happened so fast.

Phil shook his head. Clint might never fire his bow again and it was his fault.

* * *

"If you'll wake up and sit up, I brought pudding."

Clint slit his eyes open at that, eying Phil skeptically. The handler held up a pudding cup demonstratively. Clint opened his eyes the rest of the way and shifted. Phil was there immediately, pushing the button to raise the back of his bed and then adjusting his pillows. He pulled the cover off the pudding, stuck a spoon in it and placed it in Clint's left hand where it was held against his chest by the immobilizing straps.

Clint used his bandaged right hand to start spooning the chocolate pudding into his mouth. Phil used the time to retrieve the chair that was near the window and shift it over to Clint's bedside. They'd arrived in Vienna just over an hour ago and Clint's morphine induced nap had started wearing off twenty minutes ago.

Phil dropped down into the chair with a sigh and looked up at Clint, surprised to find his agent studying him closely. With the last vestiges of sleep gone, his mind only barely muddled by a morphine drip, Clint's gaze was the sharpest it had been since he'd first woken.

"Phil."

"Yeah?"

"Cut it the hell out."

Phil blinked.  _What the…_

"What?" he almost laughed in his confusion.

"Cut it. The hell. Out." Clint enunciated clearly and precisely as if he were talking to a smile child.

"Clint…."

"I know I'm not dealing all that well, but blaming yourself is  _not_  gonna make the situation better."

"I'm not..."

"Cut the bullshit, Phil." Clint sounded so incredibly tired of  _everything_  in that moment that Phil abandoned the protest forming on his lips. Instead, he clenched his jaw and looked away. He listened as Clint heaved a sigh.

"You cleared the area, right?"

Phil looked back in surprise.

"Of course."

"You didn't see McGuire in the alley?

"Of course not. I wouldn't have stayed in the doorway if I had."

Clint gave him a 'duh' look.

"Yeah, we were in the open maybe a little longer than we should have been, but hell, Phil if we hadn't been out there McGuire might have gotten away."

Phil's eyes narrowed at that.

"You think that makes it worth it? That it makes all of  _this_ ," he gestured at Clint's shoulder, "worth it?"

"You're damn right I do. We stopped a  _war_ , Phil. If taking a bullet,  _dying_ , was part of that, then what the hell does it matter?"

Phil frowned deeply. Clint was justifying what had happened, what he'd done in taking the bullet.

"Is that what you were thinking when you stepped in front of me? About the president? The possible war? McGuire? Is  _that_  what you were thinking?"

Clint's jaw clenched and Phil knew he was right.

"You want me to apologize?" Clint nearly hissed. "I won't. You want to know what I was thinking, Phil? I was thinking that there was a fucking red dot on your chest and there was no way in hell I was letting the bullet on the other end hit you."

"So it hitting you was better?" Phil challenged with a hard glare.

Clint's own eyes darkened, his answer clear in his expression. Phil didn't need to hear the words to know what Clint was saying.

_Hell. Fucking. Yes._

"I had a vest," Clint snapped out sharply, contradicting the plain confession Phil had just seen written all over his face.

"So  _that_  crossed your mind?" Phil shot back as he rose from his chair and glared down at Clint. He wasn't surprised when Clint didn't look the least bit cowed. "You took the bullet because you had a vest? Is  _that_  what you're going with, Clint?"

"What was I supposed to do?  _Stand_  there and let it happen? You weren't wearing a vest Phil!"

Phil raised his tone to match the rise in Clint's without realizing it.

"And the fucking bullet didn't hit yours!"

"It could have killed me right there I wouldn't have given two shits if it meant it didn't hit you! None of that matters, Phil! My shoulder, my job, my god damned bow! What the hell does any of it mean if you're dead? Without me, life goes on! Without you, mine fucking ends!"

Phil opened his mouth – to say what, he wasn't sure. But to say something, anything to make Clint see how wrong he was. When the hell had Clint started thinking his life meant less than his, than  _anyone's_. How had Phil missed it? How had he let it get to this point? He didn't get the chance to put any of the thoughts swirling through his head into words.

"What the hell is going on?" Dan snapped as he pushed through the door. "I go to get coffee and come back to hear your heart monitor going crazy at the nurse's station!" He looked at Clint, then at Phil. "Jesus Christ,  _now_? You two idiots chose  _now_  to have this out? No. Save it for when Barton isn't barely half a day out of major surgery."

Phil looked down grasping at the edges of his frayed emotions, straining to pull himself back together. Dan was right, Clint was in no condition to argue with him right now. He risked a glance up at his agent only to find Clint watching him with an intensity Phil was painfully familiar with.

This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

"What am I, SHIELD family counselor? I'm sending you to separate corners. Now. You," he pointed at Phil, "come with me. You," he pinned his glare on Clint, "calm yourself down, eat your damn pudding and get some god damned rest."

* * *

Dan proceeded to haul Phil out in the hallway, the agent almost losing his footing. As the door swished shut behind him, Coulson's emotions surged to the forefront, again, and suddenly he was right back on the jittery edge of an adrenaline rush.

"Christ, it's like having children." Dan pulled up short and turned around, causing Phil to almost crash into him face first. As it was, his feet tangled and he teetered precariously for a moment before Dan steadied him.

The doctor made sure he was steady on his feet, and then looked him up and down, evaluating Phil with a practiced eye. The sigh that followed bled practically every emotion on the planet.

"I don't know what he said, or just how he did it, but you look worse than you did 24 hours ago. And that, my friend, is just not fucking possible. " Dan raised a hand, looked like he wanted to extend a finger and waggle it in Coulson's face, but then closed his fist around Phil's shirt sleeve instead.

"YOU. You are going to get some sleep." Dan resumed pulling him down the hallway, and, far beyond his emotional reserves, Phil just followed meekly. The idea of a bed sounded good, but there was no way he was going to sleep right now. He'd passed that point hours ago, every nerve now on edge and screaming in futility. And he couldn't -  _wouldn't_ \- just leave Clint like he had, thinking he was ...

Expendable. The word cut Phil to the core.  _How had it come to this?_

Dan maneuvered him through another door, took a look around, and satisfied, pushed Phil gently to the single bed in the room.

"Sit down." It wasn't a request and even if it had been, Phil didn't really have it in him to argue at this point.

Phil sighed, and collapsed against the bed.  _God_ , it felt good, even if the last thing he felt like doing was sleeping. He curled his fingers into the soft bedding, and wondered to himself when he'd actually last slept. He honestly couldn't come up with an answer, the last few days suddenly blurred at the seams.

"Stay put." Dan then turned and walked out the door, and for a moment, Phil wondered just what the hell the doctor was going to do with him. He kept his eyes on the door, his vision grainy and itchy, for the long minutes until Dan walked back in, a cup in his hand, which he promptly handed to the agent.

"Drink that. It'll settle your stomach." The tone brooked no argument, and even as he raised an eyebrow at Dan, he raised the cup to his lip and swallowed. Huh. Hot tea, with honey, it seemed. It wouldn't have been Phil's first choice, but Dan was right - it settled warmly in his stomach and was oddly soothing. He drained the cup in about five gulps, then handed it back to the doctor.

"Now lay your ass down." Phil didn't want to listen, or obey, but something about sitting on the bed, finally someplace SOFT and warm, suddenly had his complete attention. Sighing loudly, he stretched out on the bed, put his head back on the pillow...

And found his head already starting to buzz pleasantly. He shot a blurry glare at Dan. When the doctor smirked back at him, Coulson knew he'd been had. With a little bit of awe, and some befuddled amusement, he realized Dan had slipped more than honey into the tea, and whatever it was, it was bearing down on him with all the subtlety of a freight train.

Given the last 24 hours, he shouldn't have been surprised. He gave up and rolled over on his side. He felt Dan drop a blanket over him, and closed his eyes, sleep rolling up on him rapidly.

"Sweet dreams, Phil. See you in 12 hours."

* * *

End of Chapter 8

Uh-oh...Clint and Phil got some stuff to work out...the two knuckleheads can't see that they both just care too damn much about each other!

Here's your preview!

* * *

_"I hear you decided to play chicken with a bullet and lost, kid. You're making a nasty habit of that."_

Clint's lips quirked into a grin without his permission. Of all the voices he expected to hear…Agent Todd Bryan's was not one of them.

"Hey Bryan."

_"How're you doing, Barton?"_


	9. You Just Do What You Gotta Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Kylen is the best beta in the universe. First- that last little scene in Chapter 8 - all her - I think i tweaked like one word lol. Second - when I went off kilter and lost my focus in this chapter, she kicked my ass into gear again. She should rightfully be credited as something like a co-author of this chapter. Because she really made a huge difference in the end and added a fair bit of her own words in here :) Co-author status for her this chapter? I think yes.
> 
> Enjoy

_Where the battle rages, there the loyalty of the soldier is proved._

**_Martin Luther_ **

* * *

Some indeterminable time later, Dr. Dan Wilson wished he'd found a room with two beds in it. Sleeping in a hospital chair – reclining or not – was hell on his back.

When he finally started seeing signs of the agent across from him waking, though, he couldn't help but settle in a little deeper and watch and wait.

Phil was gonna be pissed. So be it.

"You drugged me."

Dan Wilson looked up from his iPad at the sound of the voice – and grinned unabashedly. Phil was sitting up, rubbing at his eyes.

"Damned right. If it makes you feel any better, I went and drugged Barton, too."

Dan grinned a little deviously at that. He could still remember the glare Barton had been sending him as he slid into unconsciousness.

"I'm sure he's thrilled."

"Probably not." Dan huffed a little laugh as he stretched his arms above his head and then stood. "I haven't asked. The last time I checked, he was still asleep. He did manage to glare at me right up until his eyes closed when I stuck the sedative in his IV. So I'm not holding my breath for any thanks."

Phil managed a slight laugh and stood.

"How long was I out?" he asked as he stretched.

Dan looked at his watch, frowned a little.

"Not as long as I would've liked. About 10, 11 hours. How do you feel?"

"Better. Hungry."

"Good. Soon as you shower, I'll walk you down to the mess hall. They just finished serving breakfast about 30 minutes ago."

Phil almost protested. He wanted to see Clint, wanted to fix what was broken between them right now. But he didn't know what the hell he would say.

_Without me, life goes on! Without you, mine fucking ends!_

Did Clint really think that? Did he really think that Phil could just go on without him? That he'd just be okay? That Clint's life didn't matter in the grand scheme, but somehow Phil's did? How the hell was he supposed to show him how wrong he was?

"Yo, anybody home?"

Phil looked back at Dan, blinking his gaze back into focus.

"You're gonna hurt yourself thinking so hard." Phil just frowned a little at that as Dan retrieved a duffle from the corner of the room. "Here, the team that cleaned up Zagreb cleared your safe house. Figured you're ready to change out of those scrubs."

Phil looked down at the wrinkled, slightly smelly scrubs he had been wearing for about twenty four hours now.

"Shower." Dan steered him towards the small bathroom across the room. "Change, and meet me in the hall. I'm gonna go face the wrath of Barton."

Dan didn't give him a chance to argue. He all but shoved Phil into the bathroom and pulled the door closed, leaving Phil staring at the smooth white surface with a slightly gaping mouth.

* * *

Dan peeked through the viewing window on Barton's door before entering. The archer was in the process of struggling into a seated position, a trick with only one good arm and the bed controls on the wrong side. Deciding to take pity, Dan pushed the door open and strode in, wordlessly batting Barton's hand away from the controls and raising the back of the bed, leaving the kid to shift his body and the pillows.

"You drug Phil too?"

Dan hadn't expected that to be the first thing out of the kid's mouth.  _You're an ass_. Maybe.  _I can't believe you fucking drugged me._  Perhaps. But a calm, honest question? Never. If Barton was going to play nice, then so would he, so he granted the kid a smirk.

"What do you think?"

"He finally get some sleep?"

Dan smiled at the thinly veiled concern in the kid's tone.

"Almost eleven hours."

Barton nodded, but didn't say anything else. Dan made a show checking the kid's IV, hoping he'd say something else, but nothing was forthcoming. The doctor fought the urge to roll his eyes and smack the kid right upside the head. He and Phil were so much alike right now, it wasn't even funny.

Finally, Dan flicked the IV tubing away from his fingers, giving up the pretense.

"Look. I'm not gonna ask." Barton just nodded, still all silent bluster. "It's between you two. Just – just don't forget what's really important."

"I haven't."

Dan frowned. There was something in Barton's tone as he said it, something that hinted at some deeper meaning Dan was missing. He stared at the top of Barton's head as the twenty year old played with the edge of his blanket. He knew Barton had to sense it, but the kid studiously ignored him.

Some small part of his brain whispered that maybe that was the whole issue – what was important to Barton and  _how_  important it was. Or maybe, he realized as he considered all he knew about the situation, it was what  _wasn't_ important to him.

Either way, confronting him about it wasn't going to work.

"You hungry?"

Barton nodded. Dan pointed toward the door.

"Then I'll see what I can do about finding you some food. Maybe something a little more substantial than pudding."

Even that didn't draw a smile, though it did bring a question.

"Where's Phil?"

"Getting cleaned up and then I'm dragging him to the mess hall to get some food."

The archer nodded again, absently scratching at the IV catheter taped into the back of his hand. He still hadn't looked at him. Dan patted his hand on Barton's calf and turned away.

"I'll be back."

* * *

"Feel better?" Dan asked as he approached Phil's room just as the man pulled the door open and walked out.

"I don't feel like shit anymore, if that's what you mean." Phil smirked.

Dan laughed as they fell into step together toward the exit for the infirmary.

"Not quite, but I'll take it. Barton's up and he's not spitting fire anymore, so the day is already looking brighter."

"How was he?"

"Kid wouldn't look at me." Dan sighed, leading the way into the mess hall and snagging two trays. He handed one to Phil and together they made their way through the line. "I don't know if it's what's going on between you two, or if it's the issue with his shoulder or a combination of both, but he was practically bleeding depression."

Phil frowned deeply following Dan away from the food line to the coffee station. He blinked when Dan held him out a cup a few moments later.

He eyed it doubtfully.

"Relax. It's just coffee this time, no special additives."

"What was in that tea, anyway?" Phil sniffed the coffee cautiously and then took a sip.

"Sorry. Trade secret." Dan set his own cup on his tray and led the way to a table.

When they were finally seated and had been eating for a few minutes, Dan cleared his throat.

"I didn't have it in me to ask Barton when he was looking so pathetic, so I'm asking you. What the hell happened in there? What did he say that made you look like you'd just been punched in the throat?"

Phil looked away, and said nothing at first. Dan just sighed and maybe had started to accept that he wasn't going to get any answers he wanted when Phil finally spoke, his words soft.

"Without me, life goes on. Without you, mine fucking ends."

Dan's gaze snapped up sharply, and he stared across the table as Phil shook his head.

"That's what he said. That the world, my world, would keep spinning without him. That he was irrelevant at the end of the day."

For a long moment, Phil saw a handful of emotions battle across the doctor's face, none of which stayed long enough for Phil to really read them. In the end, Dan shrugged a shoulder, and looked back at him thoughtfully.

"Okay."

"That's it?" Phil knew he looked as incredulous as he sounded, and more than a little pissed off. "'Okay'?"

Dan took a sip of his coffee.

"What do you want me to say? No matter what he thinks – it's what he thinks. What he believes. The same goes for you. What can I say that would change that? Nothing. You think you're right, he thinks he's right. Immovable object meet irresistible force. So I simply say 'okay'."

Phil fought the urge to roll his eyes, sensing there was something deeper in Dan's response than just 'okay, I give up'.

"So you think he's right? You're on his side with this?"

"No."

"So you're on my side?"

"There aren't sides here, Phil. I'm just glad neither of you are dead. And so is he. In case you haven't figured it out, that's all he was worried about."

"That's all  _I'm_  worried about!"

"That's my point."

"But that's just it, Dan! He was worried about me, not himself. He wouldn't have even cared if he didn't walk away from this, so long as I did."

"And that surprises you?" Dan challenged. "You wouldn't have done the same thing in the same situation?"

"Of course I would have! That's not the point!"

"It's not?" Dan countered in his most reasonable tone. "You don't think that he cares as much about you as you do about him?"

"It's not that he did it. It's that he thinks it doesn't matter. It's that he thinks he's replaceable to SHIELD – to me! He's not!"

Dan nodded simply.

"So tell him."

Phil blinked and deflated a little.  _What the hell?_  Like anything was ever that simple with Clint. He opened his mouth to say as much when Dan held up his hand to forestall the argument.

"Look, Phil. When you dragged him into SHIELD, he was a contract assassin who, by your own description, was looking for a way out. The infamous Hawkeye. Sooner or later, someone would have gunned him down. When that happened, he would've been just another body for someone's morgue, and no one would've buried him.

"For better or worse, you've changed that. YOU. Not SHIELD. Not Fury. YOU. If you don't see that then you're a goddamned idiot."

Phil blinked, his jaw dropping open in realization.

"You brought him here and reminded him that people matter. After everything he'd done – you had to know there would be backlash."

Phil looked down at his plate. He did know. He saw it every time Clint dreamed one of the names in his ledger. He looked back up when Dan continued.

"And somehow along the way, he's gotten the idea that, in spite of everything he's done since then – for everything he means to you or to me or to SHIELD – there is still some part of him that thinks he'll never make it right. That he can't EVER make it right."

_"You think I ever could?" Clint's eyes dropped to the ledger then rose back to Coulson's. "Make it right?"_

The memory rose unbidden in Phil's mind. Dan didn't even know it, but he had just hit the issue where it lived. Phil could talk until he was blue in the face, offer the agent every bit of support on the planet, but when it came right down to it, Clint had never forgiven himself for the things he'd done. That ledger of his – locked in a safe in Phil's room back in New York – was more than just a tangible reminder of what had been before.

It was Clint's ... penance, for lack of a better word. When he'd started rebuilding his life – started turning Hawkeye from assassin into SHIELD agent – he'd done it without leaving room for himself in the equation. He'd built himself a new foundation, but he'd done it in a way that if and when it ever crumbled, the only person he thought he'd hurt was himself.

At the root of this, Clint still thought he deserved to die in some back alley with a bullet in his head, mourned by no one. The kid just didn't see how he could be worth anything in the end to anybody, not even Phil.

A pair of fingers suddenly snapped in front of his eyes, and Phil's attention flew back to the moment. Dan regarded him both compassion and concern.

"You figure it out?"

Phil thought about it for a long moment, then nodded.

"Yeah, I think maybe I have."

_Now he just had to get Clint to understand he was wrong._

* * *

Phil and Dan were depositing their trays in the appropriate bin when Dan's pocket started ringing. He tossed his tray down and fished his phone out, giving Phil a single figure gesture to tell him to wait a moment. A glance at the caller ID had him smiling. He flipped it open.

"Todd."

Phil's eyebrows arched in surprise.

"Yeah, both are still breathing." Dan glanced at Phil and smirked. "Yeah, he's right here, staring at me like I just sprouted a tail."

Dan held the phone out.

"For you."

Phil shook his head in amusement and took the phone.

"Todd," he greeted, moving to follow Dan as he headed out of the mess hall.

" _You don't sound like death warmed over, so Fury must have been exaggerating."_

"He wouldn't have been until about eleven hours ago, but then Dan drugged me into unconsciousness."

" _I'll bet he did. How's the pain in the ass?"_

Phil sighed.

"How much did Fury tell you?"

" _Enough to know he's probably a mess right now. He around?"_

"I'm on my way to him right now."

" _Then I'll give you_ _ **your**_ _speech while you walk."_

Phil couldn't help but smile slightly. Todd was nothing if not blunt.

" _Blaming yourself won't get anybody anywhere, so just save us all the angst and don't."_

"Clint beat you to the punch with that one, Todd. He told me in no uncertain terms to cut it the hell out." Phil didn't go on about how the conversation had deteriorated from there.

" _Oh…well. Okay then. Good."_  It sounded like he'd taken the wind right out of Todd's sails.

"You can still give me your speech if you want."

" _I appreciate it, but it just wouldn't be the same."_

Phil found himself smiling again, watching Clint's door come into sight.

"I'm sure it would have been very deep and insightful."

" _It was. You would have been moved."_

"I'm sure I would have." Phil paused outside Clint's door. "I'm about to go in."

" _Just put me on speaker, nothing you can't hear too."_

Phil nodded and Dan took that as his cue to push open the door.

Clint's head snapped around to look at them, his eyes cautious. Phil offered him a warm smile, hoping to communicate that he wasn't there to fight. He watched Clint relax a little against his pillows.

"Phone call for you."

Phil pressed the button to turn on the speaker phone and set the phone on the bed table in front of Clint.

"You're on speaker," Phil announced. He smirked when Clint's eyebrow quirked curiously.

" _I hear you decided to play chicken with a bullet and lost, kid. You're making a nasty habit of that."_

Clint's lips quirked into a grin without his permission. Of all the voices he expected to hear…Agent Todd Bryan's was not one of them.

"Hey Bryan."

" _How're you doing, Barton?"_

Clint paused for a moment. Agent Bryan sounded like he knew the situation, knew what Clint was facing. How was he doing? How the hell was he supposed to answer that? He didn't think saying,  _"I'm doing pretty shitty, worse than I've been in years,"_  would really set anyone at ease.

"I'm hanging in there," he said instead.

He felt Phil's gaze on him but studiously ignored it, focusing instead on the phone.

" _You better be."_ Todd paused and they heard him take a breath.  _"Look, however this ends up, Barton … you know you're the most talented recruit I've ever trained. Bow or not, you'll always be that. You'll always be the best."_

Clint clenched his jaw so tightly the muscles on the side twitched. Damnit the man was blunt.

"That's not really what it's about, Bryan."

He said it quietly and he  _felt_  Dan and Phil focus on him even more intently.

" _Yeah, I had a feeling, kid. Listen, you've been kicking ass and taking names since you came to SHIELD. You're the single most stubborn person I know, so this situation is no different. You pull out all that stubborn I had to deal with when you were 18 and kick this situation's ass. You hear me?"_

"I hear you."

Phil wished Todd were here to see the amused smirk he'd brought forth on Clint's face. But at the same time, he was also glad the man wasn't here to see the measure of fear and anxiety that was hidden in the kid's eyes. He had the same memories of that stubborn 18 year old and he knew Clint remembered what he was like too. He had been a handful and then some. He knew it was those memories that brought that smirk to Clint's face.

But no matter what memories Todd spurred, no matter how amused of a smirk he drew out, Clint hadn't forgotten the reality of the situation. He hadn't forgotten there was a chance he wouldn't fire his bow again. And he was scared and anxious and just hadn't figured out how to deal with it yet. It scared Phil too, because he knew how much that damned bow meant to him. He knew what it would mean if he lost it. And he knew that the physical recovery would be a small thing to the emotional recovery if that's what it came to.

" _Good. Now, for once in your life, do what Dan says and get yourself healed up, okay?"_

"Okay," Clint agreed.

" _All right, I've got a herd of recruits itching to get their turn on the parkour course…and the last thing I need is someone falling off something while I'm talking on the phone, so I'll let you go. Take care of yourselves,_ _ **all**_ _of you."_

"Will do, Todd." Dan piped up this time.

" _Keep me updated."_

"You got it." Phil reached forward and hung up the phone as soon as he heard the line disconnect.

The three men stood in silence for a moment. Phil had just opened his mouth to break it when a nurse pushed her way into the room.

"Sorry, but I need to change the dressing on his shoulder."

Dan nodded and pulled Phil towards the door.

"We'll come back."

"But…" Phil protested as Dan pulled him into the hallway.

"Getting the dressing changed is not a particularly fascinating event. Trust me, you aren't missing anything worth seeing. Besides, I promised him real food and we got distracted by Todd's call."

"Fine," Phil grumbled as they headed to the mess hall for a second time. He needed to stock up on pudding for Clint's room anyway.

* * *

Phil waited as patiently as he could for Dan to finish talking to Brunner. It wasn't that the topic of conversation wasn't of interest to him. Clint's physical therapy plan was of  _great_ interest to him, but at this particular moment in time, he'd rather be  _with_  Clint than talking about him.

Besides, the tray full of bagels, cream cheese, butter, toast and three different kinds of pudding was getting heavy. The two extra bottles of blue Gatorade weren't making it any lighter, either.

"We'll talk more tomorrow, all right? I've got to be in video conference with the Seoul base in 10 minutes." Brunner started moving away, pointing in the opposite of the direction they were headed.

"Sounds good, Lukas." Dan bid him farewell and turned to Phil. "Ready?"

Phil resisted the urge to tell him just  _how_  long he'd been ready. Instead he just nodded. They rounded a corner and almost ran smack into Clint's nurse, who was looking frazzled, panicked, and very confused.

"Now what? It's not like Barton could just get up and walk out."

Phil could tell by his tone that Dan was kidding, but when the nurse paled dramatically, Dan sobered immediately.

"Oh hell, he ran off, didn't he?"

"He's not in his bed, his IV was pulled out and he was just gone!" She said the words rapidly with barely a pause for a breath, then muttered something in German that sounded distinctly uncomplimentary.

Phil frowned, concern twisting his stomach. Clint was good, but just over a day out of surgery was he  _that_  good?

"Okay, slow down," Dan instructed. "What happened?" He asked as he propelled her back towards the infirmary, Phil followed closely behind.

The nurse took a deep breath and launched into her story.

"I changed his bandages and he asked if he could have a pair of scrub pants. He said that since he was no longer bound by 'Satan's creation,' … I think he meant the catheter ... he was tired of wearing a dress. I didn't think it would be a big deal!" Her pitch rose with the last sentence, her eyes wide and a little fearful of the repercussions of that decision.

With mild amusement, Phil realized he had an answer to his silent question. Yes, apparently, Barton was that good.

"Okay, calm down, you're not in trouble." Dan's hands gestured wildly in the air, contradicting the reassurance. The doctor rolled his eyes dramatically. "What  _I_  want to know is, when Barton is barely a day out of major surgery and one arm completely useless,  _how_  exactly the kid managed to haul his ass out of bed." He directed the question at Phil, who surprised both of them by smiling.

"You're surprised? It's Clint."

Dan's face twisted, the man heaved in a breath as if to start yelling – then suddenly barked out a short laugh.

"You're right. I should know better. Do we know where he went?" Dan asked the nurse. She shook her head, still looking baffled that Clint managed to sneak off at all. Phil could understand the sentiment – would have felt it himself if he hadn't known his agent so well.

Phil sobered. He  _did_  know his agent. And knowing Clint – and everything that had transpired over the last few days, plus his limited number of options on an unfamiliar SHIELD base – there were all of about three options. One would've been physically impossible, the second almost equally so.

Which left, of course, Clint's favorite spot on any base. As he realized the implications, his stomach started to boil with a little righteous anger.

"I think I know where he is."

* * *

Phil approached the range at a brisk walk. Dan had gone to the infirmary to fetch a wheelchair for the return trip.

Given the few minutes it had taken to reach the area, Phil had grown livid. Of all the stupid, hair-brained, self-destructive things for Clint to do, wandering off in an unfamiliar base with nothing but  _scrub_  pants after major surgery was the stupidest. He was fully prepared to tear a strip off the damned idiot when he finally found him.

A man stepped out of the office next to the closed range door.

"Are you the range operator?" Phil demanded quickly.

"Yes, what's going on?"

"I need you to unlock this door."

"The range is closed, has been for about thirty minutes. I'm getting ready to set up for a training exercise."

"Can the room still be accessed when it's closed?"

"Well yes, with a key card, but only a handful of people have that clearance."

"Check the access log." Phil used the same tone he often used to get Clint to do something quickly when there wasn't time to argue. Oddly enough, the tone worked better on this man than it usually did on Clint.

The man looked confused but obeyed immediately, returning to his office and bringing up the access log on his computer.

"Huh."

"Somebody inside?"

"Dr. Lewis Jackson went in about ten minutes ago."

Phil rolled his eyes. Add stealing an ID badge to the list of things he was going to bust Clint for – not that he was surprised.

The range director looked suddenly chagrined. "I take it that's not Dr. Jackson in there?"

"No." In spite of his anger, Phil almost – almost – laughed. Leave it to Clint to be a day out of surgery and still able to swipe a badge, sneak away from the infirmary, and break into the range. "If you don't mind." Phil gestured to the door. The man nodded and tapped a few keys on his keyboard.

Phil heard the doors slide open and headed through, scanning the area quickly. At first he didn't see him, but then he spied a set of blue pants legs on the ground on the other side of the weapons locker. He strode over there quickly, needing to make sure Clint had landed there under his own power.

"You decide it was a good idea to take a stroll?"

Clint sat calmly on the floor and looked up at him, not looking the least bit cowed or concerned. It just pissed Phil off more.

"You've been out of surgery for  _just_  over twenty four hours – you're wearing nothing but scrub pants – it's  _March_  in  _Austria_. Do you  _want_  to catch your death? Are things not stressful enough right now? You want to add some more excitement? I mean  _seriously_ , Clint! You disappeared out of the infirmary! What if something had happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"That's not the point and you damn well know it. How did you get your hands on an ID badge anyway?"

"Picked it off a doctor I passed in the hall."

Phil closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply. He would have to find Dr. Lewis Jackson and ask him why he didn't think to stop the half-naked man with his arm strapped against his chest from wandering the halls.

"Do you even realize how many things could have gone wrong? What if you had fallen? What if you had hit your shoulder on something? Hell, what if you had gotten lost?" That brought a thought to Phil's brain. "How did you even  _find_  the range? You've never been here before."

"I asked someone."

Phil resisted the urge to ask for a detailed description so he could find that guy too.

"What were you thinking?" Phil demanded.

Clint shrugged his right shoulder, completely unconcerned. Phil almost lost it. He reigned in his temper. That was it. They needed to get all their shit worked out because this was ridiculous. Clint wasn't handling any of this well.  _He_ wasn't handling any of this well. They needed everything out in the open and they needed to get it worked out.

Now.

"Get up. It's time for us to talk, but we're not doing it here."

Phil helped Clint climb to his feet and supported him when he almost went back down – fatigue from the journey to the range catching up with him.

"Then where? The infirmary?" Clint scoffed.

"No, you pick a place, any place."

"The roof."

Phil rolled his eyes heavenward. He'd walked into that one. He really had. He forced himself to take another deep breath when Clint smirked at him, resisting a sudden, strong urge to smack the look off the kid's face.

Phil pulled himself up short. Clint wasn't a kid. He was a SHIELD agent, and his friend. One of them needed to be the adult in this situation, and since Clint wasn't going to... he would – _again._

"Fine, but we're going to need a few things first."

* * *

End of Chapter 9

Next chapter is the big talk - where they will figure their shit out for better or worse :)

 

Here's your preview

* * *

_"What the hell would I have done if you'd been killed? Did you think about that?" Phil knew he should keep his temper, keep his tone in check. But damn it if Clint wasn't being purposefully obstinate. He wasn't prepared when Clint's eyes darkened and he hurled back a response more heated than Phil had ever heard from him._

_"And what the hell would I have done if it it was **you**! Did  **you** think about  **that**?"_


	10. To Defend Your Own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Kylen as usual is amazing. She has been instrumental in helping me get to where I want to be in this story. She took a back seat in this chapter writing wise- but in doing so, she let me get back to my roots in Avengers Fanfiction - Phil and Clint - it's how I started in Vantage Point and we're coming back to it here harder than we ever have before. So buckle up :)
> 
> Author's note 2: Kylen here. With the exceptions of wording and corrections, this is ALL Aggie. Which is, considering what this chapter is, exactly as it should be.
> 
> Sorry for the wait! My life is wild right now :) Enjoy

_I will follow thee to the last gasp with truth and loyalty._

**_William Shakespeare_ **

* * *

"Easy."

Phil kept a firm grip on Clint's right arm all the way until down until he was sitting fully in the wheelchair. He eyed Clint closely, frowning at the ghost-like paleness his skin had adopted on their trek up the single flight of stairs. Clint, for his part, was breathing deeply through his nose, fighting against his lungs as they tried to heave air into them as quickly as possible. Phil could tell that single set of steps had almost completely wiped out Clint's reserves.

"Okay, I know you two have shit to work out, but do  _not_  freeze your asses off up here. " Dan shook out a thick blanket and wrapped it carefully around Clint's shoulders. He tucked a second blanket over the kid's lap. "I swear to God if you two give me more work by getting sick, I'll kick both of your asses."

"I'll keep that in mind." Phil zipped his jacket up as far as he could and made sure his hands were secure in his gloves. He watched Dan pull a knit beanie onto Clint's head, ignoring the glare he got for his trouble.

"You just had to pick the roof." Dan shook his head. "Never the easy way with you, is it, Barton?"

He meant the words in a teasing fashion, to lighten the situation, but it fell flat when Barton didn't answer, just glared – as he had for the past twenty minutes since Phil had found him.

"Well, I'll leave you two to it."

Dan patted Clint on his right shoulder and shared a long glance with Phil before disappearing back into the stairwell. The two remaining men stared at each other for a long moment before Phil shifted. He moved behind Clint and pushed his chair further out onto the roof, the layer of snow crunching beneath the wheels. He thought for a moment, reviewing his battle plan in his head – his near scripted plans to get his point through Clint's thick skull. He only hoped Clint followed his plan – he wasn't really holding his breath about that, but there was always the hope.

"You remember the last time we were out in the snow like this?" Phil asked casually, coming to a stop and locking Clint's wheels into place.

"Christmas."

Phil smiled, pleased that Clint was recalling the same day he was. He circled to stand next to Clint, looking out over the base with him.

"We were in Moscow," Phil continued, "had just finished that hit on Obolensky. You sniped me with a snowball from a rooftop."

He watched Clint's lips quirk at the memory.

"Do you remember what you said to me when you came down and met me at the car?"

He refused to look at Clint when the archer didn't respond at first. He would wait – let Clint answer in his own time. Finally, after several silent moments, Clint spoke.

"I told you that you were lucky that I was such a good shot, or that snowball would have hit your back instead of the back of your head."

Phil almost laughed – just as he'd done that day when Clint had dropped down from a fire escape with a puff of snow and rattled off that faux comfort. Like getting hit by a snowball between the shoulder blades was somehow worse than getting one in the back of the head.

"And then I told you that you had finally achieved the SHIELD marksman's dream – deadly accuracy with a snowball." Phil turned to look at him, and he could tell by the look on Clint's face that the young man had realized this conversation hadn't been random. That he knew where this was going.

"That's why you're the best, Clint. It doesn't matter what weapon we put in your hand, you hit where you aim – every time. I know – I  _know_  – that's not all this is about, but it's a part of it. And you need to understand that having one less weapon in your arsenal doesn't make you any less than what you were before."

Clint's eyes stayed on the scene before them, watching a group of agents run maneuvers on the training field. Phil watched his breathing grow a little heavier, but he didn't answer.

"I want you to keep that in your mind, remember that, while we work through the rest of this. You're still you – you're still Hawkeye –  _the_  Hawkeye."

Phil shifted his weight and crammed his hands into his pockets. Clint swallowed and stayed silent. Phil wasn't surprised – he'd known this wasn't going to be easy. Nothing ever had been with Clint. It was the challenge, though, the hurdles they'd had to cross to get to this point that made him so certain they'd get through this and come out stronger.

"I want you to work your ass off and give everything you can to getting your shoulder back to where it was, but I also want you to be prepared for if that isn't enough – if you can't fire your bow again."

Phil turned and faced Clint full on. Even though his agent wasn't looking at him, he could see the depression settled in his posture, in his stony expression. Phil considered for a moment. He knew where he wanted to go with this, but wasn't quite sure the best way to get there. He knew what Clint's bow meant to him, knew the weapon was more to him than _just_  a weapon. It held a deeper meaning and a greater comfort than anything else in the kid's life. Phil needed to make him see he could go on without it if it came to that.

"Tell me about the first time you fired a bow – that day when you were eleven years old."

Clint frowned at him, confusion causing an eyebrow to quirk upward.

"I've told you about that."

"You've told me  _what_  happened. But archery has always been special to you – tell me what it felt like the first time you fired. What made that bow what it became to you?"

Clint's eyes turned contemplative, his mind falling backwards to that day. They'd been at the carnival for almost a year. He'd only just turned eleven and had been training under Swordsman for nearly that entire time. That day, like every day, Swordsman had instructed him to put away the training knives. Clint had been twirling one around his fingers – well, trying to. He hadn't been very good at it yet, but Swordsman had told him he needed to improve his showmanship – so he practiced.

He'd been weaving through the prop tent, dodging various pieces of equipment, when he saw it. His first bow.

"I'd seen it a hundred times before. Sometimes it was hanging on the wall of the tent. Sometimes it was stuffed in a corner, but it had always been there. Gordon must have been looking it over, making sure it was still firing well, because it was out on the work table."

Phil felt his throat tighten at the smile that stole over Clint's face. It was unlike any he'd ever seen the agent wear – wistful, awed and so painfully innocent. He could see that eleven-year-old boy in Clint in that moment. The eleven-year-old, curious, innocent little boy.

"I couldn't help it." Clint's smile turned almost mischievous. "I knew Gordon would skin me alive if he caught me messing with one of the props without permission, but Brit and Kara had been reading through Robin Hood with me and suddenly that bow was irresistible."

Phil wondered who Gordon was – who Brit and Kara were, who they had been to Clint. People who cared enough to make sure the eleven year old practiced his reading, apparently. He watched Clint as he continued, his agent was lost in the memories, his gaze distant and unfocused. Phil didn't dare break the spell because Clint so rarely talked about the past.

"I had to touch it. So I put the knives away and picked it up from the table." Clint shook his head and smiled. "It was so smooth and for a second I felt like Robin Hood, getting ready to go steal from the rich and give to the poor. And then holding it just wasn't enough. I had to fire it. It was so much harder than I thought it'd be, pulling that string back. I snapped myself in the forearm  _good_  the first time." Clint's head shake was rueful this time. "God, it hurt so bad, but I wasn't about to let that stop me."

Phil smiled. Of course he wouldn't – a little thing like pain had never stopped Clint.

"I got the string pulled back far enough the second time, pointed it at one of the old knife targets and let go."

Clint smiled widely.

"Hit the outer edge, but I hit it…and then I was hooked. I snuck it and a handful of arrows out of the tent and went and practiced behind Brit and Kara's tent. They were practicing their trapeze routine so I knew I had at least an hour before they got back. I practiced for an hour before anybody came looking."

Clint shook his head and Phil saw something familiar in his eyes. It was the look he got in his eyes when he practiced just to practice, just so he could fire his bow.

"There was so much shit going on in my head – stuff I never wanted to talk about. I needed a way to escape – to clear my mind and just exist. That day, an hour passed like a second. For the first time in a year, I didn't think about Phillip Jacobs. I didn't think about my parents. I didn't think about what an ass Jacques could be or how much I missed talking to Barney. I didn't think about anything but burning muscles and the target I'd carved in a tree. Nothing else had done that for me. Not knife throwing, not tumbling, not the trapeze or the high wire. I'd finally found a way to get out of my head.

"Once they gave me that bow and eventually a newer, stronger one, I became addicted. I  _needed_  it. It's how I coped when things between Barney and I got worse and I wanted to force myself to ignore it. It's how I vented when Jacques pissed me off. It became my lifeline. I set back my own recovery after Barney stabbed me because I  _needed_  to fire it. I needed to get out of my head. It was the only thing that kept me from going crazy."

Phil waited, wondering if he would go on. Clint's eyes started drifting back to the present and he went on.

"I've needed it ever since. Not having it in the Army nearly drove me up the wall. I went and got it as soon as I could after I got out of prison. I think it might be the only reason I got through the year that came after that. Do you realize it's the only constant I've had in my life? How sad is that?"

Clint fell silent after that, shaking his head in what Phil thought might have been derision.

"It's not sad. It's been part of you for almost ten years now. There is absolutely nothing wrong with not wanting to lose that. "

Clint's eyes slid to his, something Phil couldn't read passing through his gaze. Phil almost frowned – barely refrained – because it wasn't often that he couldn't read Clint these days. A sudden onslaught of guilt rushed through him. Clint could lose his bow because he saved him.

"Do you regret it?"

The words were out before Phil could stop them and he instantly wanted to pull them back, especially when he saw Clint's eyes widen a fraction as he processed the question.

"Regret what?" The cautious tone of Clint's voice told Phil he knew exactly what he was talking about. Now it was too late to pretend he hadn't asked it. Clint's chin was already jutting out defensively, prepping for a fight.

"Stepping in front of that bullet. Given everything you stand to lose now? Do you regret it?"

"No."

The answer was so quick, so firm, Phil had to blink and wonder if he'd imagined it.

"But…"

"I don't regret it, Phil. Not for a second."

"How?" Phil demanded, distantly realizing he was straying from his goal for this conversation. "After everything you just told me, how can you not want to take it back?"

"Because if I hadn't done it, you'd be dead. McGuire would be in the wind. Croatia's president would still be in danger and a war would be about to start." Clint's tone was hard and firm and left no room for argument.

But Phil had as little trouble arguing with Clint as Clint had arguing with him.

"I  _know_  that's not true! If you were just accepting it, we wouldn't be here right now. You wouldn't have snuck out of the infirmary barely 24 hours after surgery and gone to hide in the range. Just  _tell_  me what's going on in your head, Clint! You can't just say you're OK and then sit there and bury yourself in your own depression. No one's buying it."

Phil was almost pleased when Clint's eyes lit up and his expression darkened.

"You want to know what's going on in my head? I'm pissed, Phil! I'm angry and I'm scared because I  _need_  my bow and I might never fire it again. I feel like I'm losing part of who I am and it's killing me!"

Phil sighed deeply.

"Are you happy, Phil? Now that you  _know_?"

The handler forced himself to remain calm, not to snap back in response to Clint's sarcastic and hard tone.

"Do you still need it?"

Clint drew up short at the soft question.

"What?"

"Do you still need it?" Phil repeated calmly.

Clint's confusion was plain on his face.

"Things have changed, Clint. You aren't an eleven year old dealing with your parents' deaths and years of abuse anymore. You aren't an eighteen year old punishing himself for his sins. You're not that person anymore. Do you still  _need_  it?"

Clint opened his mouth and then closed it again. Phil waited, watched as Clint pulled his thoughts together.

"Yes." The confession was quiet but heartfelt.

"Why?" Phil asked carefully. If Clint said what he expected him to, he could finally get to the deeper issue in all of this. The issue that was the root of everything that was wrong with this situation.

"Because I  _am_  that person, at least part of me is. I need it because I still need to get out of my head. I still need to escape."

"From what?"

"From what I am – who I was."

"And what exactly do you think that is, Clint?"

Clint's blue grey eyes slid over to meet Phil's . He hesitated for a long moment before he answered and when he did his voice was heavy with emotion.

"I'm a killer – it's the only thing I'm good at. Killing. I killed people – and most of them didn't deserve it. I still kill people. Maybe the motivation is different now, but that's all I'll ever be. A killer."

Phil felt his stomach drop. He'd known – somewhere inside him – that Clint might think of himself this way, that he  _had_  when they'd met. But he thought that Clint had grown, had realized he was so much more.

"Clint, you're more than that. What you do now is not the same – you know that. You do good. You save people. You stop bad things from happening…" Phil couldn't get the words out fast enough and stuttered to a stop when Clint quietly interrupted him – his words so soft and firm that they demanded attention.

"But I'm still a killer – for better or worse – and killers are a dime a dozen, Phil. All I've done for five years is take life away from people – for the Army, for money, and for SHIELD. And at the end of the day, nothing else matters but that.  _I_ don't matter."

"Don't matter?" Phil breathed in shock. "Is that what you think? That you don't matter?"

After everything. After three years of shared pain, sweat, and blood. And Clint still didn't get it. Didn't understand what he meant to Phil – to Dan, Fury, and even Todd. Phil had known this was coming, but he wasn't prepared for it. Wasn't prepared to hear it point blank.

Clint believed he didn't matter.

That had to change. Now.

"Why do you think I'm here, Clint? Why do you think Dan is here? Why do you think Todd called? Why do you think Fury came here? Do you think it's because you  _don't_  matter?"

Clint's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Fury was here?"

"Yes," Phil nearly shouted in frustration. "Don't you see it, Clint? Fury dropped everything and flew out here, Dan too.  _I'm_ here. Because you  _matter_  to me, to all of us."

Clint was already shaking his head and Phil wanted to hit him.

"Don't," Phil snapped. "Don't you  _dare_  try to explain it away. You want to know how much you matter? Dan called in a favor with the best orthopedic surgeon in eastern Europe, for _you_. Do you think those favors are easy to come by? But did he even think twice about it? No.

"And Fury," Phil huffed a nearly hysterical laugh as he plowed on, his tone rising, "Fury told me flat out that no matter what happens with your shoulder – whether you fire a bow again or not – you're the best agent he has. He wants you at SHIELD. You  _are_  SHIELD to him. Do you know how often he passes out that kind of loyalty?"

Clint's eyes were wide, his exhausted brain struggling to keep up with and process all the new information. Phil thought he could see moisture gathering in his agent's eyes. Those words – the announcement of Dan and Fury's loyalty – had hit Clint where it mattered. And Phil finally had his full attention and in the perfect position to actually  _hear_  what Phil was going to say next. 0

"So if you think you're expendable – to me, to them, to  _anyone_  – you're wrong. If you think we could just go on without you? You're an idiot." He kept his tone firm and maybe still a bit too forceful, but he  _had_  to make Clint see. He wanted to scream in frustration when Clint just shook his head and looked away.

Phil lost his tenuous hold on his emotions and he let his voice rise to a yell.

"What the hell would I have done if you'd been killed? Did you think about that?" Phil knew he should keep his temper, keep his tone in check. But damn it, Clint was being purposefully obstinate.

He wasn't prepared when Clint's eyes darkened and he hurled back a response more heated than Phil had ever heard from him.

"And what the hell would I have done if it was  _you_! Did  _you_ think about  _that_?"

Phil wanted to pull his hair out. Clint just wasn't getting it.

He didn't realize that Clint was thinking the exact same thing.

"No, Clint. I didn't. But you didn't think about me either."

"You were  _all_  I was thinking about, Phil! You think I can just lose you? You think I can keep doing any of this without you? You're the reason I'm here! The only reason I stayed! If that bullet had hit you," Clint shook his head as if he couldn't deal with even the thought, "what the hell would I have done? What would my life at SHIELD be like without you?"

"Clint…"

"I'm not done," Clint all but growled. "My reasoning isn't entirely selfish. You had a life before me, Phil! You had friends, you had your job, you had a purpose and a value to people! People would have felt your loss. I was in a position to stop that and I did. For me, for them, for everyone that would have missed you when you were gone."

Phil stayed silent for a moment, staring so heavily at Clint that he was sure Clint could feel the weight of his gaze. His charge was working to slow his breathing, calm himself down. When Phil felt like Clint was in a state of mind to listen again, he spoke, his words soft.

"And you think that  _I_ could lose you?"

Clint blinked.

"You think I could have gotten past that any easier?"

Clint's jaw clenched again but his eyes stayed locked on Phil's.

"If that's what you think, then you're either blind – and you've missed everything that's happened in the past two years and eight months – or you're an idiot and you just haven't noticed."

Phil stepped closer to Clint, nearly towering over him. The archer just met his gaze squarely and listened – he  _listened._

"What do you think you are to me, Clint? My agent? My colleague? Is that what I am to you? Just your handler?"

"No," Clint denied immediately, fervently.

"Then how the hell can you think that's all you are to me?"

Clint's eyes welled and he swallowed thickly, letting the guard on his eyes fall. He let Phil see what he was thinking. Phil knew, with that, that he was finally –  _finally_  – getting through.

"You're my  _family_ , Clint – my only family. You're my brother in every way that matters. Hell, sometimes I feel like you're my own kid – my son. You mean everything to me and the thought of losing you," Phil felt his chest tighten just by saying the words, "the thought of you dying or being hurt at all – much less because of me – it kills me."

Clint's eyes took on a measure of realization and understanding that told Phil he finally got it. It was finally clicking into place. All Phil could think was that it was about damn time.

"You  _matter_ , Clint. To SHIELD, to Fury, to Dan and Todd. You matter to  _me._ "

Clint swallowed again, his eyes never leaving Phil's.

"You are not expendable. And no matter what happens with your shoulder that will never change. Are you hearing me?"

Clint nodded, not trusting his voice to speak.

Had he really been that blind? Had he really been that self centered? So self centered that he hadn't seen what was now laid out so clearly? He swallowed.

"I'm sorry."

Phil's gaze, if possible, grew even softer.

"Don't be sorry. Just believe me. And don't  _ever_  tell me you don't matter again."

Clint nodded. He'd never doubted that Phil cared about him. That had been obvious for years now. But to hear Phil tell him that the man held him in the same standing that Clint held _him_. Clint hadn't even thought, hadn't even  _considered_ , that it was possible.

He thought about what Phil had been going through the past day and a half – knowing what he knew now. The apology was out of his mouth again before he could stop it.

"I'm so sorry."

"Clint…" Phil sighed and smiled warmly.

"I didn't know. I should have known – after everything, I should have known – and I'm sorry that I didn't. That I didn't see it. That I didn't see what all of this was doing to you." _God, he was so sorry._

"But you know now," Phil excused with a sigh, he crouched next to Clint and gripped his right forearm. "And  _I_  know that this hasn't been any easier on you. I'm sorry I made it harder."

"You didn't." Clint was quick to excuse.

Phil's lips quirked into an affectionate smile. What was it that Dan had said before they'd flown to Austria?  _You could push the kid off a cliff and he'd say he jumped so no one would think less of you._  Phil was seeing now how right he had been.

"I did, but thanks for saying that."

Clint managed a tired, but genuine smile.

"Are we good, Phil?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah, kid," Phil squeezed Clint's forearm, "we're good."

They were the closest to good they'd been in a while at least. Things weren't perfect, and Phil was under no delusions that Clint was now cured of his self-destructive tendencies. They had a long road ahead of them in more ways than one. Clint's shoulder would be an uphill battle – the rehab would probably test the kid's patience to a new level. But he knew that Clint could do it. The kid had never had trouble fighting battles, uphill or otherwise.

And then there was the road to fixing what had been broken in Clint for so long. But Clint knew now what his value was to Phil – to the others of their little group. But Phil knew it would be a never-ending battle to make sure he never forgot.

Not everything was resolved, might never be – but it also didn't have to be. Because Clint had gotten the major point of all of this.

They were on even ground from here on out.

* * *

End of Chapter 10

Anybody else get hit hard by that? It hit me hard and I wrote the damn thing lol :)

There is only one more chapter - the closure to the whole Clint shoulder situation :)

Here's your final preview

* * *

_"Barton."_

_Clint looked up in time to catch the file sliding towards him before it went into his lap. He arched a scolding eyebrow at Fury and adjusted the ice pack on his shoulder. He saw Phil's lips quirk in amusement out of the corner of his eye._

_"What's the job?"_

_"A protection detail, in Paris. Welcome back to the rotation."_


	11. And I'd Do The Same - For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> The end is here :) Thank you all for reading!
> 
> Kylen is the best beta in the world - without her this fic would not have ended up how it did and I am honored to have had her help and look forward to working together in the future.
> 
> The song for the chapter titles was "For You" by Keith Urban

****

_Loyalty and devotion lead to bravery. Bravery leads to the spirit of self-sacrifice. The spirit of self-sacrifice creates trust in the power of love._

**_Morihei Ueshiba_ **

* * *

Clint looked up when the door to his room in the infirmary swung open.

"Hey," Phil greeted as he strode in, his duffle in hand.

Clint nodded in greeting, returning his focus to what he was doing – getting his shirt on. He already had the sleeve up his left arm and in one swift movement, he shifted his head down so he could pull the collar over his head. Then it was an easy thing of maneuvering his right arm through the sleeve.

Phil had moved to drop his duffle on the bed next to where Clint sat. He retrieved Clint's immobilizing sling from where it was laid out on the bed and took the one step he needed to be at Clint's side. Clint yanked down the hem of his shirt and nodded to Phil. The sling and swath that held his left arm against his chest wasn't so bad, but getting it on and strapped correctly was a project more easily tackled with backup.

This had become routine over the last two weeks, this process. Clint had picked up on how to dress himself fairly quickly, even if the process had been painfully slow in the beginning. Phil had watched and not interfered – an act Clint was sure went against every instinct the man had. But he always helped with the sling and Clint wasn't about to refuse the aid.

He didn't try to lift his arm, knowing that action would not only cause excruciating pain to even attempt, but his shoulder couldn't have completed the action at this point anyway. Instead, Phil took his forearm where it was resting limply against his side, bending the elbow gently and sliding the sling into place. He had the shoulder strap in place quickly and the swath looped around Clint's torso and strapped into place a moment later.

"Good?" Phil asked with a questioning arch to his eyebrow. Clint nodded and reached to pull his few belongings scattered across the bed towards him with his free arm. Phil went to the chair against the wall and retrieved the open duffle resting there. He had to pause to cough deeply into his hand before he continued to the bag. He brought it back to Clint and left him to pack while Phil retrieved the rest of Clint's things from around the room.

"You've been taking those meds Dan prescribed, right?" Clint asked as he crammed various articles of clothing into his bag.

"Yes, I'm not you, Clint. I  _do_  what the doctors tell me." Phil smirked and Clint rolled his eyes. He'd nearly died laughing when  _Phil_ had been the one to come down with a nasty cold after their foray on the rooftop. Dan had looked pissed enough to breath fire.

"I've got something for you," Phil announced as he deposited Clint's Harry Potter book – well worn after multiple readings – his iPod and a half-empty blue Gatorade on the bed next to him. Clint slid his iPod into his pocket and tossed the book into his duffle, remembering with sudden clarity the relief he'd felt when Phil had told him his stuff had been recovered from the safe house. His sniper rifle was currently resting across the foot of his bed – its return had been a relief – but Clint had been surprised when it was the iPod Phil had given him that had brought the most relief and joy upon its return.

He looked up when Phil unzipped his own bag and produced a book. Clint laughed as he caught sight of the title –  _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_.

"You've read the first one half a dozen times now and I finally tracked down a copy of book two that wasn't in German."

Clint accepted the book with a smile.

"I would have survived until we got back to New York."

"When we get back to New York, I can get you the rest of the series. Now you have something to read on the flight."

"Thanks." Clint grinned and tossed it into his bag and pulled his hand back so Phil could zip the bag closed.

"Ready to go home?"

"God yes."

Phil took both their bags in one hand and retrieved Clint's gun as the archer made his way towards the door, quiver and stowed bow hooked over his right shoulder and blue Gatorade held in the same hand. They entered the hallway together and both paused when they saw Dan and Dr. Brunner striding towards them.

"Ready to get the hell out of Dodge, kid?" Dan asked with a wide smile as he drew nearer. He had his own duffle in his right hand and his iPad clutched in the other.

"Just been waiting for your slow ass to get the show on the road."

Dan turned to Brunner.

"The appreciation and affection is overwhelming, isn't it?"

Brunner smiled slightly, Phil snickered, and Clint rolled his eyes.

"I'll walk you all to your plane," Brunner volunteered, motioning down the hallway.

The jet was already powering up when they entered the hangar.

"Who's flying us?" Clint asked curiously as they made their way across the large open area.

"Jack Markham." The answer rolled from Phil's lips immediately, as if he'd known Clint would ask and had made sure he was ready with the answer. Phil had to cough into his hand a moment later, a nasty wet sound making Clint wince.

Clint nodded in response to the information on the pilot and the four men paused at the bottom of the ramp.

"This is where we part ways, my friends." Brunner offered them all a smile. "I will check on your progress as often as time allows, Agent Barton, but you are in safe hands with Daniel. Do us all the favor of doing as he says."

Clint huffed a slight laugh and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He shook Brunner's hand when it was offered.

"Thanks for putting me back together, doc."

Brunner nodded and Clint started up the ramp. He'd never admit it to any of them, but he still felt tired more than he didn't. He just wanted to sit down, settle in, and read his book.

"I do appreciate everything you've done, Dr. Brunner," Phil offered seriously, he extended his hand for Brunner to shake. "Thank you." The words were fervent and sincere and it made Brunner smile.

"All I've done is given him a fighting chance. The rest is up to him."

Phil smiled slightly and nodded. A fighting chance – Clint had never needed more than that.

"I hope that cough of yours leaves you in peace and should we meet again, I do hope that it will be under better circumstances."

"I couldn't agree more, Dr. Brunner."

"Have a safe flight."

Phil took that as his cue to move up the ramp and join Clint, who was settling into a chair.

Dan pulled his eyes away from their vigil on his two friends and returned to Brunner.

"You might have mentioned when you called me exactly  _who_  you were calling me about."

Dan smirked, his eyes twinkling.

"Would it have changed anything you did?"

"Doubtful," Brunner allowed. "But it would have been nice to know just how important the shoulder I was operating on actually was."

Dan shrugged innocently.

"I knew you'd put it together, Lukas. There are only so many Clint Bartons in the network."

"One, actually,  _just_  the one. And I didn't put it together until I'd left to sleep after the surgery and I realized just  _where_  I'd heard that name before."

Dan smiled.

"Kid does have a reputation."

"Indeed." Brunner shook his head as if to clear it. "Keep me updated on his progress and let me know if anything changes in his shoulder. He's healing quite well so far, but you know as well as I do how quickly things can change."

"I'll keep you updated. I'm putting him with my best PT when we start his rehab next week and I'll send you a copy of my notes."

"Most appreciated, my friend. He can do this, I sincerely believe that, I only wish I could be there to see it happen."

Dan smiled, unsurprised by Brunner's level of commitment to Barton and his recovery. Brunner had always been good at caring about his patients as more than just names on a file.

"Thanks for dropping everything, Lukas." Dan extended his hand.

"After all you've done for me it was the least I could do." Brunner shook his hand firmly. "Until we meet again, my friend."

Dan nodded and headed up the ramp.

He settled in the chair behind Phil and strapped in as the jet started taxiing out of the hangar. Dan glanced around. Clint was already immersed in a book, his earbuds firmly in place. Phil was on the phone, talking to Fury from the sound of it. Dan rested his head back and sighed deeply.

After two long weeks, they were headed back to New York – back home. Finally.

* * *

"Knock, knock."

Phil and Clint looked up from where they were unpacking Clint's stuff. Todd Bryan was peeking his head through the doorway. He smiled widely when they saw him and stepped fully into the room.

"Look at you with your fashion statement." Todd ran his fingers dramatically over the shoulder strap of Clint's sling as if it were an outrageously expensive suit coat instead of an immobilizing sling. "I should make you spar me now, I might actually win."

"Don't get cocky, Bryan," Clint grinned arrogantly. "I've always told you I could still beat you with one hand tied behind my back. You really want to test that claim?"

"No sir, I do not." Todd laughed. "I know better than to bet against you now."

Clint grinned and went back to unpacking his bag, nodding when Phil silently tilted his head towards Bryan. The two older men stepped out into the hall.

"Good to see you two in one piece."

"Trust me, it was a near thing."

Todd nodded, his expression sobering.

"How's he doing?"

Phil sighed. Was  _that_  ever a question with several answers.

"He's healing well so far, Dan and his surgeon in Austria were pleased. But nothing is guaranteed. He knows he might never fire his bow again and he's coping the best he can. All in all he's doing as well as can be expected – maybe even a little bit better."

Relief washed over Todd's face.

"That's good to hear. I've been so busy with the new batch of recruits I haven't had a second to breathe. Last time I talked to the kid, he was being eased off his pain meds and he was growling like a bear."

Phil laughed a little and nodded. Clint  _had_  been a bear that day. At his own request, he had been steadily having his pain medication decreased. That day it had been gone for good and Clint hadn't been in the best disposition in the first place. Todd had called right after Clint had managed to tweak his shoulder ever so slightly. Nothing serious or bearing any threat to the injury, but definitely painful.

Clint had argued with Dan for fifteen minutes straight after that about his refusal to go back onto the pain meds. Todd had gotten to talk to him right after that argument had ended with Dan throwing his hands up, calling Clint some colorful names, and walking out.

"You caught him on a bad day."

Todd waved him off, showing Phil he hadn't taken it to heart.

"When does he start physical therapy?"

"Next week. He's itching to get back into some kind of activity. Dan has had him under strict watch with nothing more than short walks throughout the day to keep him from climbing the walls."

Todd nodded.

"You guys will keep me updated, right?"

"Of course, Todd. Thanks for checking in."

Todd smiled and pushed Barton's door open once again, sticking his head in.

"I've got a training exercise to get to, but I just wanted to make sure to welcome you back."

"Thanks, Bryan." Clint granted him a smile from where he was cramming wads of clothes into his dresser.

"Now you get your ass back into shape because I've got a batch of recruits that think they're something special on that parkour course. I'd  _love_  for them to watch you show them how its done."

Clint huffed a laugh.

"I'll get on that."

* * *

Aiden Roberts had spent the last hour and a half – since he'd heard they'd landed – dreading the moment Phil Coulson walked through the doors to the tech office. When he'd heard about the comms malfunctioning in the field via a very strongly worded email from the director himself, Aiden had just  _known_  he was in for it. He'd been the one to sign the comm set out to Agent Coulson after all.

When he'd heard that Hawkeye – Coulson's protégé – had been shot on that mission, he'd  _known_  he would have to face the wrath of Agent Coulson.

Nobody  _ever_  wanted to face the wrath of Phil Coulson.

Aiden knew there had been an instance once, way back when Barton was first recruited, where an Agent Hanson – since transferred – had gone too far in a training exercise with Barton. Aiden had seen the bruises on Hanson's face the next day.

No, he didn't want to face Phil Coulson.

So when none other than the agent himself strode into the tech room, Aiden felt the blood drain from his face.

"Have you figured it out?" Coulson demanded sharply when he was barely a step into the room.

Aiden swallowed.

"I-I think so."

Coulson waited for a moment, but Aiden couldn't force himself to keep talking. The man's expression was cold as ice and Aiden just  _knew_  he was in for it.

"And?" Coulson snapped out with an edge of impatience. It startled Aiden into answering, the words spilling out rapidly.

"We think it was a wiring issue with one of the ear pieces." He swallowed, trying to keep his composure. Back-testing without the actual earpieces had been rough, and a lot of what they had found out had been theorized guesswork. "We tested another set in the same batch and it showed that while the connection would be fine one moment, the wiring would malfunction and the whole line would go to static."

"Don't you test the equipment before you sign it out for a mission?" Phil asked as he took a measured step closer to Aiden's desk. It was moments like this where Aiden wished he'd said no to MIT, no to SHIELD, and no to heading up the tech department. He wasn't even field trained – he just didn't do well in situations like this.

"Of course I did, but it worked perfectly. The issue only comes out after prolonged used."

Agent Coulson stepped closer and leaned over Aiden's desk, placing his palms flat on the surface and bringing his face inches from Aiden's. The tech swallowed thickly, fighting the urge to draw back.

"This does  _not_  happen again. It does and I'm coming to  _you."_  Agent Coulson's gaze darkened. "Is that understood?"

Aiden swallowed and nodded. Agent Coulson glared at him for several long moments.

"If this mission had gone another way – and that equipment had been the reason – we would be having a  _very_  different conversation. Am I making myself clear?"

Aiden nodded again.

"P-perfectly."

Coulson glared a moment longer and then he nodded and withdrew.

"Good."

Then he was gone, striding away and Aiden released the breath he'd drawn in when the man had leaned over his desk. He would double – no, triple – check any and all tech equipment he signed out to that pair from now until the day he retired.

He reached behind him, picked up the twins to the set he HAD checked out and used for testing – and threw them in the garbage. Better to be safe than sorry.

* * *

_Six days later…_

* * *

"You ready for today?" Phil asked as he and Clint casually strolled along the outdoor track. Clint was expressly forbidden from moving any faster than that. So their morning run had become a morning walk.

"Hell, yes. I've been ready since the day we got back."

Phil shook his head in vague amusement. Of course he had. He saw Clint adjust the strap for his immobilizing sling. He knew the thing was driving him nuts, but Dan had insisted he needed it for at least the first month. And to Phil's everlasting surprise, despite how much it was annoying him, Clint had never once asked to get it off early. He hadn't complained, except when he thought Phil couldn't hear. He hadn't tried to sneak it off, that Phil knew of at least. As near as he could tell, Clint had done exactly as he was told.

In the end, Phil supposed he should have expected it. This wasn't just any recovery. This recovery meant the difference between firing his bow again and losing it forever. He should have known Clint would take his rehab deadly serious and follow each instruction to the letter.

"All right, we're going to be late if we don't head that way." Phil urged Clint back the way they'd come.

"You're coming, right?"

Phil smiled warmly.

"If you want me to there, I'm there."

Clint nodded and Phil took that as a request for his presence. They continued on in silence and six minutes later they were pushing into the infirmary's physical therapy gym.

A petite little woman with bright blonde hair in a high ponytail smiled in greeting and Dan looked up from his iPad.

"Phil, Barton, meet Rachel Braxton. She'll be working with Barton over the next several weeks." Dan motioned at the woman. "Rachel, meet Clint Barton, your patient. And Phil Coulson, his handler."

"It's nice to meet you both, now Dan, if you don't mind, we should get started." Rachel gave Dan a firm, but kind look.

"I've got a meeting in ten minutes anyway." He tossed a warning glance at Clint. "Be nice."

The archer rolled his eyes and shared a glance with Phil as Dan left the gym.

"Agent Coulson, I understand that you want to be here, but I'd really prefer if I could work with Agent Barton alone."

Rachel Braxton was  _not_  prepared for the glare she got for that request.

* * *

"Seriously?" Dan sighed as he looked down at his beeping pager. He excused himself from the meeting and stepped outside of the room pulling his cell phone. "Rachel, I've been gone all of ten minutes, what's wrong?"

" _You need to come down here."_

Dan blinked.

"Tell me what's wrong."

" _I pissed him off and now he's refusing to cooperate."_  Her words were blunt and professional, but bore a level of frustration Dan knew only  _Barton_  could bring out in people.

"What happened?"

" _I told his handler to leave."_

Dan sighed.

" _Yeah, I've gathered that was a bad idea."_

He smiled slightly.

" _How do I fix it? The only reason the guy hasn't stormed out is because his handler is talking him down."_

"Easy solution, Rachel."

" _I'm all ears."_  He smiled at the impatience in her tone.

"Include Agent Coulson in the therapy. Barton will respond better and progress better with him there.  _Trust_  me. I know that from experience. If you play it right, eventually Barton won't need Coulson there to buffer anymore."

" _He has trust issues."_  He could hear the realization in her voice, as if the whole situation made sense now.  _"Okay, I've got an idea."_

"So I can back to my meeting?"

" _Yeah, I got this."_

* * *

Dan peeked into the physical therapy gym just under an hour later and smiled. Rachel was standing behind Clint as he stood with his left side against the wall. She was supporting his left elbow as he pressed his forearm against the wall – an isometric exercise that wouldn't stress the shoulder too much.

Phil was standing in front of him, his right thumb hooked with Clint's so their hands were pressed together.

"Breathe through it, Clint." Phil's voice drifted across the gym as he coached Clint through the pain Dan was certain he was feeling.

"Good. Now relax and let up the pressure."

Clint obeyed Rachel immediately, but his eyes were on Phil.

Dan smiled and pushed into the room.

"Well, well, color me surprised, Clint Barton actually listening to directions from a medical professional."

It had been a joke, but to his surprise and instant worry, no one laughed. Clint shot him a look then and Dan froze. Things weren't going as well as they seemed. Barton's eyes were frustrated – very frustrated. Dan sighed. After years of pulling the weight of his bow string, being reduced to a simple thing like isometrics was killing him – Dan could read it all over his face.

"Yeah, I know. Pretty pathetic. But necessary."

Barton blinked and Dan took a moment to just  _look_  at him – communicating all the understanding he could, but also issuing a challenge. Challenging Barton to attack this with all his usually tenacity. To make this happen. After a long moment, Barton shrugged his right shoulder and turned to Rachel.

"What's next?"

Phil shot him a look then and Dan nodded silently to the thanks he saw there. As Rachel got Clint started on the next exercise, she shot him a look as well, over Barton's head. She'd known what Barton was thinking – had apparently read it just as he had – but she hadn't known what to do, how to handle him.

Dan decided right then that he had just became a part of this equation.

* * *

_Approximately six weeks post-surgery…_

* * *

"Jesus."

"I know it hurts, don't force it, just let me do the work, Barton."

Clint nodded at Rachel's instruction, reaching with his right hand to wipe at the sweat on his forehead. He shot a glance at Phil as Rachel continued to carefully work his shoulder in different directions. His handler arched his eyebrows questioningly, but Clint shook his head. Phil nodded and went back to the file he was reading. Clint's eyes shifted to Dan next, who was typing on his iPad with intense focus. Sensing his gaze, Dan looked up and just nodded. Clint nodded back and returned his attention to Rachel.

Twenty minutes later, Phil was handing Clint a blue Gatorade, Dan was rushing out to a meeting and Rachel was adding her last additions to Clint's chart for the day.

"You still doing okay without that immobilizer? I know I made you keep it for an extra week, but I think it helped."

"I've been being careful, promise." Clint offered her a small smirk. She grinned and nodded.

"Okay then, this was a good day, Barton. Keep it up, okay?"

Clint nodded and followed Phil out of the gym.

* * *

_Approximately eight weeks post-surgery..._

* * *

"Good, Barton!" Rachel praised as she watched Clint rotate his shoulder under his own power. His face was stony and his eyes were intensely focused, but she had come to learn that was just how Barton was – at least when it came to his rehab. He finished the exercise and slouched on the bench he was sitting on.

"What's next?"

"The bands."

Clint nodded and they moved across the gym to where different levels of resistance bands were attached to the wall. Clint arched an eyebrow at her questioningly.

"No, Barton. Stick with the lowest resistance."

He sighed but didn't argue.

"So," Rachel began as she got him started on working on his shoulder rotations, this time with the lightest band giving him some resistance. "Where's Agent Coulson?"

"He had a meeting with Fury and Wilson," Clint stated simply. She wasn't surprised when he didn't offer any further explanation – Barton wasn't one to talk much in the first place. This was the first time he'd come to a session without Agent Coulson – and the first time Dan had been unable to attend. And she was glad she was standing behind him because he didn't see the huge smile that stole across her face.

That might have been the biggest step they'd made.

* * *

_Approximately eleven weeks post-surgery..._

* * *

"Barton, calm your ass down before I kick you out of my gym."

Rachel watched Barton pace across the room and then pivot and glare at her.

"It's been almost three months! And I'm working with twenty-pound weights!"

"You know that it's a process," Rachel countered sharply.

"Last week you said we were making progress but I'm still  _miles_  away from where I need to be."

"And where do you need to be?"

"Firing my bow! I used to be able to pull 70 pounds of weight on my bow over and over like it was nothing! Now I do twenty reps of  _twenty_  pounds and I have to stop because of fatigue!"

"Barton, you had to start over with your shoulder. You're farther  _ahead_  than you have any right to be because you're healing so well  _and_  you've been busting your ass in here, but you have to be patient. If you start pushing now, you could set yourself back."

She watched him pace away again, to a different corner of the room. She watched and she waited. Finally he huffed and came back over to where she'd been standing the whole time.

"What's next?"

She let her expression soften.

"Push up position on the balance board. If you're good, I won't tell Dan about this when he gets back from the city and I'll clear you to start running in the mornings again."

She forced herself not to smile when his face lit up at the offer.

"I'll be an angel."

"Barton, don't make promises you can't keep."

* * *

_July 11, 11:00am – approximately sixteen weeks post-surgery..._

* * *

"You know, I think I might keep this even after you're gone," Rachel commented as she watched Barton pull back on a resistance band that she had anchored to the wall at both ends. The intent was for him to mimic the motion of drawing his bow. They'd been doing it for two weeks now and he'd been able to up the resistance twice since they'd started.

He finished his repetitions and let the band go to rest against the wall. He sighed deeply and turned to lean back against the wall as he rested. Rachel stepped forward and lifted his left arm, forcing him to stretch out the muscles and rotate it. She caught a wince when she hit a certain position.

"It still tweaking when you hit that point?"

"Not every time, gotta hit it just right."

She analyzed his expression closely, but could read no signs of deception. She nodded.

"Okay, well, Barton…this is our last session. I'll give you the choice of what your last exercise will be."

"Same thing I just did." His answer was immediate and he was already pushing off the wall and reaching for the band. Rachel wasn't surprised. It was the closest thing he could do to firing his bow without actually getting to fire it.

Though, after she turned in her final assessment to Dan, she was certain Barton would be doing the real thing soon enough.

* * *

_July 11, 11:45pm_

* * *

Dr. Dan Wilson brought up a patient chart on his iPad, and started tapping in a few miscellaneous notes. It didn't take him long, but the notes were at the end of a chart that was, for all intents and purposes, the longest among SHIELD's active agents right now.

 _Of course, most of it's been from the last four months_ , he thought ruefully. When Fury's assistant had paged him out of the archives on March 18 to Fury's office, Dan had known something was up. What he didn't know was that he would be on a flight 20 minutes later, calling in a favor from a medical school friend, and then facing the kind of uncertainty he'd never expected when he'd embarked on a career in trauma medicine.

 _Lukas, my friend, you were the one crazy about orthopedics. Not me._  Of course, over the past four months, Dan had gotten a crash course in rehabilitation therapy for the shoulder, courtesy of one Dr. Lukas Brunner. Dan shook his head. When he, Phil and Barton had headed back to New York from Vienna, he'd expected to be supervising the lengthy process and trying to keep both Barton and his handler – both friends – from climbing the walls and rushing the process.

What he hadn't expected was to be pushing alongside the physical therapist on staff every damned step of the way. He'd never followed a patient from the beginning of a rehab program until the end – not until Brunner pulled him aside and suggested that he do it with Barton. The orthopedic surgeon had rightly caught onto the fact that both Dan and Phil were emotionally invested in Barton's recovery, but he'd also wanted someone he trusted watching the progress first-hand – someone he trusted to remember how long the road back might be.

 _"It will be one step forward and two steps back, if you will pardon the cliché."_ Brunner's voice had been full of concern, but also caution. _"And the process may or may not have a defined finish. If the he doesn't regain full mobility, it will be a continuous situation of trying to gauge what he can and cannot handle with the joint._

_"You have to be prepared for the fact that, no matter what we do, it may not be enough."_

Dan thought he'd understood that. When they had arrived back in New York and he'd pulled his best physical therapist in – a pretty blonde named Rachel who was equal parts Attila the Hun and girl next door – he thought he'd be mostly hands-off in a supervisory capacity.

It took all of 10 minutes into the first therapy session for Rachel to page him, and when he'd picked up the line, he could hear the frustration in the young woman's voice.

" _You need to come down here, Dan."_

That was all she'd said, but he'd been ready to fly away from the meeting he'd just stepped out of. He had stopped himself, though. It was important that Rachel build a relationship of trust with Barton and if he stepped in to solve the first battle of wills then he'd be undermining her.

It had been the start to a long, involved journey Dan had watched with equal parts wonder and exasperation.

While Rachel ran things, Dan stayed just to watch. More than once, he'd seen Barton look over at him, a question still on his face. Dan had nodded, inclined his head back toward the therapist – and watched as Barton dove back into the exercises without complaining.

Dan had made it a point to be there at the start of every session for the next several weeks – until Phil stopped coming and Barton no longer needed reassurances. Sometimes, he stayed the whole time – taking notes, watching the progress, asking questions and then later contacting Brunner for feedback. Other times, he'd watch the beginning, eyeball Barton's mood, and then leave the session to him and Rachel. It shocked him to find Barton's typical attitude –  _pushpushpushpushpush_ , and to hell with the consequences – nowhere in attendance. The kid actually did exactly what he was asked, when he was asked, and didn't push the boundaries any further than prodded to by Rachel.

It had been the damnedest thing to watch – a cooperative Clint Barton. Dan wondered just how much Coulson had talked to the kid – and for about the millionth time, what those two had talked about on the roof in Vienna. Both had walked away from Zagreb with a new appreciation of how the other thought.

Dan shivered when he thought of that argument in the hospital, and the implications of it. He knew for a fact that not a day went by that Phil didn't blame himself for what his agent had done in taking a bullet for him – and also that Clint may not have grasped all the consequences when he'd jumped in front of his handler, but would have done it again in a heartbeat.

The doctor openly wondered sometimes just how many other agent/handler teams could claim to have the kind of instinctive awareness that Coulson and Barton shared and seemed to take for granted.

He sighed deeply. After Zagreb he knew neither of them would ever take it for granted again.

With a stifled yawn, Dan reached for his phone. Lukas deserved to know that his work had come to fruition. Clint would be cleared tomorrow and Phil would return the archer's bow to him to celebrate the third year since Clint had come to SHIELD.

Dan waited as the phone rang and smiled when Brunner answered.

" _Brunner."_

"Lukas, it's Dan."

_"Daniel...please tell me you are not calling at nearly 6am to tell me I need to fly to New York and perform more surgery."_

"Nope. Calling to tell you that, pending a final check up in the morning, Barton's getting cleared."

There was a moment of respectful silence on the other end, and Dan swore he heard just a bit of a sniffle.

_"Ah. So we are finally there. I will tell you truthfully, Daniel...I did not know..."_

"Trust me, neither did we."

Dan could only sit in his own silent awe of how Barton had bounced back, had worked  _so_  hard to get where was now. Phil had told him about his surprise for Clint tomorrow, but Dan couldn't help but be silently jealous that he wasn't going to be there for that.

* * *

_July 15_

* * *

Phil took a moment to just watch. It had been three days since he'd returned Clint's bow to him and the young man had spent almost every free moment in the range, practicing, fine tuning the skills that had only barely begun to get rusty. Phil wasn't sure how long he stood there and just watched Clint practice, but a sudden buzzing of his phone reminded him they had a briefing to get to.

"Clint," he called from the doorway. The archer turned immediately. "Briefing Room Two – you've got an assignment."

Clint's face broke into a smile so wide, Phil was sure his face was about to split in half. He bounded across the range, bow in hand.

"What's the assignment?"

"Fury's doing the briefing, not me. Come on."

Clint followed without complaint, bow still clutched in his hand. He rarely released it these days, not unless he had to. Phil held out an ice pack and the agent obediently pressed it against his shoulder as they moved through the halls. Together they walked into the briefing room and sat down. No sooner had Clint looked down to set his bow on the floor than Fury blew into the room.

 _"_ Barton."

Clint looked up in time to catch the file sliding towards him before it went into his lap. He arched a scolding eyebrow at Fury and adjusted the ice pack on his shoulder. He saw Phil's lips quirk in amusement out of the corner of his eye.

"What's the job?"

"A protection detail, in Paris. Welcome back to the rotation."

* * *

End of Croatia

It's been an awesome ride with this one :) Thanks to all who read and those who commented. You guys make my day and I love writing these stories for you :)

Now onto your preview for the next installment in the universe

* * *

**What No One Else Sees**

_Natasha Romanoff had looked down the length of her assassin's arrow and known it was over - her life was going to end. But then he'd paused, something had flashed over his eyes, and he'd lowered the arrow. Clint Barton had been sent to kill her - he made a different call._


End file.
